


taken by the sky

by merthyr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Death, Female Reader, Future Romance, Modern Girl in Thedas, Multi, Origins to Inquisition, Reader-Insert, gratuitous fleetwood mac references, how does one tag?, how not to mom with flemeth, reader has anxiety because honestly, the purplest of prose, weird witch girl slice of life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10030817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merthyr/pseuds/merthyr
Summary: “There is little I can tell you that you don’t already know. The rest you will have to learn for yourself. And trust me, you will learn.”You wake up in a body that is not your own, in a world you knew only in stories. The threads of the future are in your hands, but there are years yet until the story unfolds... and Flemeth is watching you.Modern-Girl-in-Thedas story that spans from Origins to Inquisition.





	1. part one: the wilds - START

It burns hot, then cold, and then somehow both, before fizzling into an inescapable itch. _Remade_ , a single voice whispers in your head-- and there are so many of them, sizzling the synapses of your brain _. AWAKE_ , another says, louder than the rest. Your eyes open _._ Light filters through yellow leaves, the ground beneath you is wet and you are so, so tired.

 _Awake_. I can’t. _Then sleep_.

The last moment is simply sensory. A pair of arms snaking under your shoulders and around your knees, lifting you up, up and then…

 

 

_Blood, laimsa, WRONG, dream._

“What is _that_?”

“It’s a girl, child. Am I to presume you’ve lost your sight as well as your wits?”

“No, I--” An exasperated scoff. A door shuts and opens and a warm draft sweeps over your skin. The smell of campfire is overwhelming. “Am I allowed to ask _why_ you’re bringing this girl into our home?”

“You can. Although I shan’t answer.” The world tilts as you’re lowered, the whispers sinking. “And neither will she.”

 

 

 _Awake_.

You try to sit up but your bones creak and your body is bound in furs. There is no plastered ceiling above you, merely a layer of worn wooden slats, and the air is mired in a smoky haze. You can hear the crackle and pop of a fire, which strikes you as strange, because your room doesn’t have a fireplace.

You’re not tired, but you are hurting. Your body feels like it’s been pounded into paste and pulled back together with plastic wrap. And your head...

“So, you’ve decided to rejoin the land of the living. Tell me, did you have pleasant dreams?”

“Who are--” Your head turns and your voice cracks like kindling. By your bedside is an elderly woman with eyes as yellow as a cat. Her clothes are absurd-- roughspun garments, dyed in faded russet and forest green, the edges trimmed with leather.

The woman snorts, not very impressed with you, but maybe a little amused. “Not more than a moment awkae and you’re already asking the wrong question. It matters little what you call me, child. The question you should be asking is who are _you_?”

You blink slowly, deliberately, trying to parcel out what (and who?) she’s talking about. There are no good answers.

“What on--” earth are you talking about? Your breath stops and your mouth won’t move for the words. “What-- What on--”

A tidal wave of voices rises from your spine and riot between your ears. _No. No. You can’t. ENAAN DIANA. Keep it in._

The woman’s wry smile thins.

Your voice is strained and whisper soft when you ask, “What have you done to me?”

“I have done very little, save for the very beginning. The rest was you.”

Your eyes flicker to the cracks and corners of this strange place. A ladder leaning on a loft. The walls, worn and nearly stripped of paint. Animal pelts and herbs strung like garlands around the room. A spindle by the bed, a churn by the only door. That door is hanging open and the night is dark as pitch.

“Where have you brought me?” Your voice gets stronger as you work it, the tone sounding strangely sweet.

“My home.”

“Where?”

“Elsewhere. Far away. My home, but not yours. Well, not until now.” She chuckles, “There is little I can tell you that you don’t already know. The rest you will have to learn for yourself. And trust me, you will learn.” Her head twists, smile in place but eyes narrowed. “I see, though, that you are not yet plagued by the fade. I suppose I should let you enjoy it while you still can. I am not without pity, after all.”

They are parting words, and you are far from done with her. “Wait!” You cry out, and your voice still sounds so very wrong, but you manage to gasp out one more question. “At least tell me your name?”

“You keep asking questions that you could easily answer yourself. You know me as Flemeth, although I suppose…” She taps a spindly finger to her chin, “Hm. A piece without a puzzle… You have given me much to think about. We shall have to see what becomes of you. Until then--”

 _Sleep_.

 

 

Sleeping is quiet.

Your dream is simple. You’re on a rocky beach, standing on broken seashells and slippery stones. There is a looming cliff behind you, and another hanging weightlessly above the sea-- perched on it’s point is city cloaked in darkness, it’s black spires piercing a sunless sky.

Your name is whispered into your ear, but when you swing your head, no one is there.

 

 

It’s the smell that wakes you at last. Tender and spicy, like a winter stew, alongside the mellow sweetness of cooked vegetables. Your stomach growls in appreciation.

“--but I think your _guest_ has woken up.” Someone says with saccharine sweetness.

“She is no more a guest than you are. But you're nearly right. Are you hungry, girl?”

It takes you a moment to realize that you are ‘girl’. It isn’t that you’re still tired, or even that you’re scared. You are… thoughtful. Deliberating. _Numb_. And yes, perhaps you might even be a little afraid. If things really are as they appear, then you are in deep, deep shit.

“Come now, we’ll not wait forever.”

You open your eyes and turn your head towards the light. There is Flemeth, sitting in a rickety chair with a wooden bowl in her hands, and standing beside her is her young, beautiful daughter.

“Does she know how to speak?” Morrigan asks.

“Better than you cook,” Flemeth replies.

Morrigan folds her arms and glares, her fingers wrapped around a ladle like she’d rather it was a dagger. Your eyes roam down the curve of her cheek towards the thin span of her waist. You’re not sure how old Morrigan was meant to be during the… events, but you think this girl looks too young for adventure. She wouldn’t look out of place in a high school bathroom, applying too much eyeliner into a murky mirror.

“Why do I even bother? Perhaps our extended guest will be more forthright... Not that that’s hard. Now,” Morrigan’s attention flutters back to you, “Do you know any Common?” She speaks another language then, guttural and foreign, and yet the right words echo in your ears, “Are you Chasind then? Avvari?”

Your mouth opens, closes, shuts. The whispers are quieter than they first were, but they are no less present, pulsing and pushing until you are left with nothing but lies.

“She has nothing to say to you.” Flemeth says. Her eyes cut to you and there’s a calculating shine in them that you don’t like the look of. “Bring her a bowl of broth.”

“Lovely. Am I now to be a nursemaid?” Morrigan grumbles, but she turns around anyways and begins to rifle through the shelves for cutlery. Quite scathingly, she says, “I’d heard tales of you stealing young girl’s from their beds. I never thought that they were true.”

Flemeth snorts, “What you know about me could fit in a thimble.”

She spoons the broth into the bowl, thinner than the stew from your imagination, but no less appealing to your shrivelled stomach. You wonder, briefly, if you should worry about being poisoned, but the thought leaves as soon as it arrives. You can hardly believe you’re here, there’s no room in your mind to ponder repercussions and implications. What matters is that you are hungry now. As you untangle yourself from the mess of furs and quilts you realize that you’re completely bare, but by the time you’ve sat up Morrigan has brought you a bowl. You grab it with one hand, the other holding a quilt to your chest in needless modesty and--

\--the bowl slips from your fingers, the broth sloshing over furs. Morrigan curses, but you hardly notice because something is so very wrong.

 _New_ . _DIFFERENT_.

No. No, no, no.

These hands are wrong. Your chest is-- it isn’t meant to look like this, so small and, and… You scramble from the bed, your legs lifting out, sliding over soup and sopping pelts. You fingers bracelet your knees, your ankles. They’re so very small, small in a way a woman’s body just isn’t, and you let out a great cry once you can no longer deny the… the _childishness_ of it all.

This isn’t your body. This isn’t your body, this isn’t your house, and everything is wrong.

“Mother!” Morrigan shouts over your keens, “What is wrong with her!? Ugh, she’s gotten it everywhere!”

She steps back when you start to scream, lips curled in distaste. Flemeth ignores her and walks deliberately to your side. She slides something from the pocket of her apron and lifts your face from the clasp of your hands with surprising gentleness. Your eyes are wide, pupils blown, and your cheeks are glossed with tears.

“Take this, child.” She places a leaf upon your tongue. “Now chew.” You do.

It doesn’t take long for the world to get quieter. Your whimpers fade and everything softens. The fire becomes hazy, faces a feather soft blur. Even the whispers seem to fade away. It takes no effort at all for Flemeth to lean your heavy body against the wall. When she places a bowl to your mouth your lips part without protest.

“Here, child. You’ll need something to settle your stomach.”

“Surely she has a name.” Morrigan is still rooted to her spot with morbid fascination, “Or did you not bother to ask before stealing away with her into the night?”

Flemeth wipes a trail that dribbles to your chin. The warmth is hypnotic. “We’ll call her Rhiannon.”

“‘ _We’ll call her?_ ’ Mother, she is not a pet. You cannot just-- _name_ a stray child. She’s not so young that she wouldn’t remember her own, she won’t answer to it.”

“And why not? You need not answer to Morrigan, and yet you do, just as I answer to Flemeth, mother... or old hag. Names are pretty, but mean little in the grand scheme of things. She will adjust. Now, wash these furs before they dry. I don’t want the smell to stick to them.”

They talk more, bickering and nagging, but your tongue tastes like thyme and you are _floating_. You don’t remember anything more from that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did we need another modern-girl-in-Thedas story? No. Am I going to write one anyways? Ohhhh yes.
> 
> Hahaha. I'm trash. This is trash. But hey, if you like the taste of garbage...? Let me know what you think, and what you'd like to see in the future. I've got a good idea of where this is going, but there's lots of room to grow.


	2. part one: the wilds - QUIET

You can’t stay silent forever, though you do try.

The loft is cramped and nearly cozy, the little space not taken by books given to a squat cot stuffed with sweet grass. Most of the books are shelved on rough hewn planks, stretching from floor to ceiling, and the rest are scattered on the ground in stacks. You leaf through a dustless tome stretched wide between your legs, fingers curling around the cover and smoothing the soft pages. It isn’t paper, the texture is wrong.

 _Vellum_.

Visions of open fields filled with grazing calves fall over your eyes like a film. Your press your hands to your eyes and release a ragged groan. It’s so strange, but you should know better by now than to be curious-- looking at the books only ever makes it worse.

Sometimes you think that the dream is almost done and the whispers have finally released you, but then you’ll find yourself questioning or wondering, and they rise up your throat like acid, reminding you that when you’re here you’re never truly alone.

“Your supper is ready, beastie!” Morrigan’s voice drifts through the cracks, her sarcastic after-quip a mere rumble through the floorboards.

You close the book and swing your legs off the cot. Your finger swipes over the title as you reshelve it, thumb bumping over the branded letters. _ATLAS OF SOUTHERN THEDAS_. It isn’t written in the roman alphabet, arabic script or kanji characters. It’s something wholly different, strange in a way you’d never have come across in your world-- the real world, that is.

And yet you can read what’s written. You try not to think about it too deeply.

“Mother will be very cross with me if she finds you dead of starvation!” Morrigan says in sing-song.

You scramble to the ladder. On the first day you were here, dawn to dusk, you'd tried to ignore Morrigan and she had not been pleased. After five minutes of waiting she’d found you curled in a corner and had mercilessly clacked the bowl to your teeth. She’d given you a little verbal lesson on blood magic and how it could be used to suck the will from its victims-- and then told you how very _tempted_ she was to use the darker arts. Naturally, the second day you were down and at the table as soon as you heard her put the pot on the hook.

Your feet lift off the rung and onto the ground. On the ground floor Morrigan stands alone, bowls of boiled beets laid out on the table by the fire. She’s facing away from you, eyes sightless, with her arms crossed like she’s holding something in.

You’ve been here four days. You haven’t said a word to her.

“...Morrigan.”

She turns to raise an eyebrow, a still frame suddenly animated and says. “Oh, so you _do_ speak.”

There was so much you could have said right then: Thank you for feeding me, I know it’s a bother. Sorry for lying in bed all day, I’m trying to send my soul to another plane. I used to have a mild crush on you, but only when I thought you were fictional. Also I know more about you than you’d ever want me to and your mother houses the soul of an ancient, defied elf.

The door swings open and Flemeth saunters in.

Hanging on Flemeth’s arm is a big splint basket, green onion stalks poking out from beneath a holey piece of cloth. She left late last night and has only just gotten back. You absently wonder where she goes. Perhaps this is normal behavior-- Morrigan doesn’t seem to think it worth commenting on, at least not to you, but you don’t imagine yourself sticking around long enough to find out.

“Hello, mother. It seems that your extended guest has found her voice at last.”

“And she wasted it on you? Fah.”

Morrigan sighs and sits to eat. You join her, perched on the edge of your chair. Flemeth ignores you both, dropping her basket on the table before turning around and setting out once again for the wilds.

You don’t speak again that night.

 

 

“Take the girl outside with you.”

“Excuse you?” Morrigan already has one foot out the door, her face lit silver by starlight.

“You heard me.”

“And do _what_ , exactly?”

“The same that I did to you, all those years ago.”

“And why can’t you do it?”

“Shall I, then?”

Morrigan doesn’t say anything for a long moment. She takes a step inside, towards the dying embers of the fire. “Well then. Come along beastie.”

 

 

Morrigan guides your steps through the fens, more patient than you’d come to expect, and leads you to a dark water pond ringed with shivering aspens. You stare into the water, your reflection crowned by the full harvest moon, and wonder about portals to other worlds.

Morrigan wanders around the ring of the pond; she looks older in the nightlight. “What do you dream of?” She asks.

Your feet are bare and your toes are slicked with mud. The whispers get louder the closer you stand to the water, but you think you’re starting to understand.

_Dreams, the city, BLACK, there, the wind, the sea..._

“...The sea.” You say, the first real thing you’ve said since Flemeth.

It takes her some time to reach you-- she might not have actually expected you to answer. Instead of explaining, asking more questions, or clarifying she prowls to your side and slides a hand up your neck, her fingers curling into your hair--

\--and you see the possibilities in an instant. She pushes you, you stumble, and her foot presses you down, down into the muck, down where you can’t breathe--

But her hand falls limp, odd but innocent, and you can’t help but hear a rattle in her breath.

“Then think about water.” She snaps and stalks away to the trees. She ignores you for the rest of the night, and nothing else happens. Still, a part of you realizes that something should.

 

 

 

“Back so early?”

Morrigan climbs the ladder and doesn’t say a word.

 

 

After that night Morrigan is gone more often than not.

When you wake up, you swear you smell salt in the air. But then the sleep seeps out of you and the weight of the world settles onto your chest. There’s no salt, but there is a little smoke. Someone is home.

You shift in your bed, peering over the frame to look between the floorboards. There’s a flash of amber over steel gray, and you realize that for the first time in a long time you are alone in the house with Flemeth.

She doesn’t look up when your toes touch down on the dirt, eyes intent on a half rolled scroll. Despite the fire, your skin ripples with goose pimples beneath your thin, hand-me-down shift. You step closer, closer, careful but quiet, expecting her to say something at any moment but… nothing.

“I’ve been here a week.”

“Nine days.” She says, then looks up. “And ten nights. But who’s counting?”

You have, but you were asleep too long to be sure.

With trepidation, you settle yourself onto the edge of the bed (her bed, you’ve realized in days past) and ask, “Can you… Is there a way to go back?”

“Do you think you’d still be here if I knew?” She shakes her head, “That path isn’t mine to walk.”

“You don’t have any idea?”

“Not one.”

That-- That wasn’t what you wanted to hear. For a moment you wish you could turn back time so that you’d never have to know, so that you could go on with the idea that everything was temporary and-- and you’d already known, hadn't you? You knew this whole time but if you’d admitted it then you’d have wondered _how_ you knew, and...

“I’m going outside.”

Flemeth nods, like wandering off into the night is only to be expected, and there’s the smallest glimmer of what looks like sympathy in her eyes. ‘I am not without pity.’ She’d said, and you suppose if anyone would understand it would be Mythal, who crawled her way from the bygone world of yesteryear.

You don’t think while you walk. It’s been your deliberate state of mind for the last nine days and ten nights and it’s unraveling at the seams, tangling like Ariadne’s thread over boulders and bushes until, finally, you step into the dark-water pond and all that’s left is you, yourself, and the whispers.

The wonderful thing about the woods is that no one can hear you scream. You can’t hear anything else, either, which is so nice you yell yourself ragged. The rage goes quick, and the grief settles in quicker. You cry, crouching down in stagnant water and sobbing into the crook of your knees, wondering what you’d ever done to deserve this. Soon even that gets tiring so you lift your sodden face… and then blink in wonder at what you’ve done.

You’re cold --how could you not be, half dressed at the crack of dawn, calf deep in pond scum-- but you didn’t realize that the water had frozen over.

_Mana, the ice, open the fade again and see.._

The whispers are annoying, but at least they’re trying to be helpful. Too exhausted to think about it further you step out of the water, lay down on the dewey bank, and fall asleep.

 

 

Sleeping is quiet.

Your dream is simple. You’re on a rocky beach, the waves washing over your feet. There is a looming cliff behind you, and another hanging weightlessly above the sea-- perched on its point is city cloaked in darkness, it’s black spires piercing a sunless sky.

  
Your name is whispered into your ear, but when you swing your head, no one is there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disassociating is fun, especially when you have a lot of homework due the next day!
> 
> These are really fun to write! I think everyone should write at least one self-indulgent fanfiction, it's good for the soul. Thanks for reading!


	3. part one: the wilds - TIME

You sit up and shake the grass out of your hair.

There, huddled beneath an aspen, alone with your thoughts and your actions, you make a promise to yourself. No more tears, no more anger. Crying won’t do you any good. But magic… magic might save you.

The sun is high in the sky by the time you wander back, and while the dew long gone your ice is still pristine on the pond. When you enter the shack Morrigan and Flemeth both look up from their work with insight in their eyes. You wonder how they see it so quickly. You’re different than before, you know it, you just don’t know how you know it. Is it a smell, a look…?

_A rent in the fade, THE FADE, open the fade again and see…_

Flemeth shoots Morrigan a glance you don’t understand before turning to you with an incisive half smile. “So it begins.”

 

 

Reality sinks its teeth into your life in unexpected ways.

It’s the things you vaguely understood but never truly thought of that trip you up. Like how ashes can’t just sit stagnant in a hearth and need to be swept; or that beds without springs need to be aired and changed; or how chickens don’t lay eggs in neat little rows for you to find, and instead, shoot them out haphazardly around the marsh like an easter egg hunt from hell.

Magic makes a world of difference, and you wonder how other people even make do. Magic lights fires, wards the livestock from harm and keeps the lopsided shack dry even in the damp of the wilds.

And of course you must learn it all, both the mundane and the magical, as soon as soon as you can.

Cleaning is hard but intuitive --there are only so many ways to move a rag-- and most of it is delegated to thoughtfully placed wards and charms. On the other hand, you always thought of yourself as an okay cook, but once you take away the gas stove and the food processor it turns out you’re the worst. After a particularly terrible attempt, Morrigan makes you scrub out the charred belly of the pot by hand, ‘managing’ you with a smirk on her face, though you swear she knows a way to do it with magic.

Morrigan... Morrigan is a strange creature, and you don’t know where you stand with her.

One night she comes home with the splint basket stuffed with cloth and rags. From the pile, she pulls out a blouse that would have fit you fine in another life and holds it up in front of you with a squint. “It will do.” She says as she tosses it onto the table alongside the rest, “I tire of seeing you in your undergarments. Feel free to peruse at your leisure.”

“...Thank you.” You say, apprehension apparent. It’s silly, but you feel a flare of protectiveness towards your shift. You’ve been wearing it for quite awhile and... perhaps she has a point.

Morrigan sighs. “You are welcome, I suppose. I will take my leave then. Goodbye, mother.”

Flemeth doesn’t reply. She’s been sitting beside the fireplace, staring and doing… whatever it is she does. You won’t even pretend to know. You think you might offer Morrigan a smile goodbye since her mother can’t be bothered, but she’s gone before you can make the gesture.

You rifle through the basket, finding tattered skirts and frayed braided belts, your nose wrinkling as the scent of must wafts through the air. You take the blouse, a belt, a pair of leggings that look like they might fit one day, and a skirt that has fewer holes than the rest and may or may not have been red at one point in time.

You do a very good job of not thinking about where these things come from until you spy the little leather pouch at the bottom of the basket. There are two long strings to pull the mouth tight, and wreathed on the front are little embroidered flowers. You wonder who took the time to place such tiny, even stitches...

“It will not be missed.” Flemeth startles your revelry. She stands from her chair and pats the soot from her apron. “The moon is rising. It’s as good a time as ever.”

You nod, putting aside your new treasures to be cleaned thoroughly at another time, and follow her outside for another lesson on magic.

 

 

Sharp but concise, Flemeth begins to ford you through an ocean of information. At first your lessons are broad but simple. Push your will like _so_ , move the fade like _this--_ No! Not like _that_ you halfwit! Once she’s satisfied you won’t burn the house down, she brings you back inside and shows you how to boil water to clean your clothes… and to take a bath, if it so pleases you. Never before have you been so motivated to learn.

When Flemeth is gone, as she so often is, you read.  After all, once your chores are complete, what else is there to keep yourself occupied with? You read more than you ever thought you could, until your eyes burn and your brain feels like it’s been run over by a bus. You learn strange, profane things in these books-- about the cryptic kingdom’s ruled by powerful demons in the fade, the different ways to boil a man’s blood, and of the sadistic cults that sacrificed animals, men, and themselves in their quest for power.

But just as all magic is not dark, so too are there books that linger on the lighter side of the arcane. It’s one such book that finally got you to venture out of the hut and into the wilds-- a beautiful tome, filled with illustrations and descriptions of useful plants for poultices and potions.

There’s a creeping plant with red, sharply shaped petals arching over the doorway-- looking at it wiggles a path through your brain. You climb the ladder and find it’s picture in the book: _TREFIR’S POINTS: Highly poisonous. Poison is procured from dark brown seed pods. Can treat problems of the heart in large beasts_. You laugh, because would Flemeth really decorate her shack with a deadly flower? Yes, yes she would.

The revelation sends you on a small hike around the area, carefully taking cuttings and scouring the pages for their painted twins. It’s… fun. The air is warming, the grass is browning, and your thoughts are somehow clearer in the wild; less muddled, more your own. The whispers are quiet and for the first time in a long time, you feel alone, not lonely.

It’s so strange to think, but time is passing. Two months, nearly three. The moon has kept turning and now the season is changing. ‘You will learn.’ Flemeth had said to you that first night, and you have, you’ve depended on learning to keep you hopeful. 

Still, sometimes you wonder if you’ll never find a way home. What could you possibly do with yourself?

Well, you’ve always had a bit of wanderlust in you. Discovering the world like this? It almost makes it feel like it’s yours. Eventually, you spend a whole day meandering in the marshes, toes splattered with mud from the lowlands and a small smile on your face.

When you come back for supper only Flemeth is there. “You spent all day traipsing in the wilds, did you?”

“I... Yes. You’re both always gone.” You reply. An accusation or explanation, you’re not entirely sure. Should you apologize?

“Hm. Normally I wouldn’t bother but--” She snorts and waves a hand, “Don’t forget yourself. Or should I say don't forget your way? I suppose it’s whichever you feel fits.”

You’re not sure you understand. You nod anyways.

 

 

One morning Morrigan presses the splint basket to your chest and tells you, very politely, to get lost.

It’s really no issue. The sky is electric blue, and lazy streaks of summer clouds slide by like snail trails. You leave the house clad only in your shift and your skirt, arms bare to enjoy the sun, which seems like a wonderful idea until you see the thick blackberry brambles scrunched like old newspaper between the hillslopes. It’s early but their purple fruits look full to bursting. Who could say no?

You arms are covered in scratches once the basket is filled, and the sun is still high in the sky. Morrigan never said how long she wanted you gone. You suppose it was probably more than an hour, so you meander into a patch of black-eyed susans and settle down on your back, content to watch the world turn for awhile.

It isn’t more than five minutes when your head starts to ache.

_Go on, RUN, the void, it's here._

You sit up in a snap. In all the time you’ve been in Thedas, you’ve never heard the whispers sound like _that_. You hook your hand around the basket and stand up in a rush, but it’s too late.

“You there! Girl!”

You haven’t heard a man’s voice in months. Your breath stutters as you slowly turn your head to see two men downland by the marsh’s edge. One is pale-headed, dressed plainly in linen and boiled leather, and you pay him no mind. It’s the other man, with his helmet held in the crook of his arm and his hand hovering over his eyes that worry you.

That insignia branded on his armor-- he could only be a templar.

“She looks Chasind, Edric. I do not think…”

The templar waves the other man down, seeming content to ignore him. “We may as well ask. Come down here, girl! I've got a question for you.”

If only you were a tree, you could stay rooted to the spot and no one would think anything of it. But then he might chop you down, wouldn’t he? He’s a templar, and you-- you’re a _mage_ , and he could kill you and no one would think anything of it.

You clutch the basket to your chest and step carefully down the hill. Standing suddenly before him, you struggle to look him in the eye. “Yes, ser?” You ask, quiet as a mouse.

“Do you live around here?”

“Yes, ser.”

“Sort of a strange place to be, isn’t it?” His shadow shifts, it’s head tilting.

The heat creeps up your neck. “I… I was…”

“...Shirking your chores, were you?”

He laughs. The break in the tension gives you the courage to look up, and you quickly realize how young he is. Ginger-haired and lobstered by the sun, you don’t think he could be more than a few years older than Morrigan. He has the templar armor on, certainly, but it’s casually held together, and he’s added a personal touch, a beaded token wrapped around his neck. There’s a lazy smile on his face, and his eyes are staring through you, not at you, like he isn’t much concerned with the going-on's.

You deflate, only a little. “Um… Yes, ser.”

The man in leather is older than his companion, and grumpier too. He folds his arms and gruffly asks, “You’re supposed to interrogate her, not torture her. Can we go now?”

The templar rolls his eyes, “Calm down, I’ll be done in a moment. Do you often visit the marshes, child? We’re looking for a Tevinter ruin, a small tower sunken into the water. It’s marked on our maps, but I think they may be old, and the land has since changed.”

You know exactly what he speaks of-- a thin, toppled tower, leaning drunkenly on a half dead sycamore. It’s less than a mile from Flemeth’s shack.

“No, ser.” You whisper, and the lie goes down easy. “I’m not allowed to wander very far.”

He sighs. “I suppose that’s a good thing. Ah, well.” He winks, “I hope your mother is kind to you-- it really is a lovely day. Though I advise you find your shirt before you head back. Good day!”

  
Your blush makes him laugh again, and you greedily snatch the chance to leave. Back with the flowers, you watch them go with wide eyes, and once they’re out of sight you run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Obligatory transition chapter*
> 
> Reader's world is going to start expanding soon! I'm wondering what characters to include, hm... Anyways, I'm probably going to start staggering these a little more. One a week maybe?? It's fun to vomit out chapter after chapter, but knowing me, I'll just burn myself out.


	4. part one: the wilds - GAMES

The door slams against the wall.

“Flemeth! Morrigan! There is--! There--!”

The two women in question look at you as if you’ve entirely lost your mind. You must look a sight, hair blown wild and chest heaving. Have you ever shouted at them before? Or raised your voice? Or… How often do you speak at all, really? A flush creeps up your neck and over your cheeks.

“What is it, girl?” Flemeth asks.

“There was a Templar.” You murmur.

“And?”

“I just thought you’d like to know… He spoke to me and he… Well, he seemed like he was heading this way.”

Morrigan’s gold eyes glow with a strange light as she looks you over, narrowing to a sliver as she looks down upon your bedraggled, grass strewn skirts, and then up to the angry red marks on your arms. Dangerously, she asks, “Did he touch you?”

“No.” You say, “ _No_. He asked if I’d ever seen the tower, in the lake.”

Flemeth tilts her head and smiles, a cat playing with a mouse, “And what did you say to him?”

“I told him no.”

She laughs. You hadn’t expected her to be overly concerned, but to be amused? You realize that maybe they knew they were being hunted all along. “Well, Morrigan,” she says, “It seems to me that you were wrong on both counts. Tell me, child, are you interested in another lesson?”

Morrigan’s face sours instantly. “She will only get in the way.”

“Oh?” Flemeth smirks, “I seem to recall you once enjoying such games.”

“She is too old for games.”

“We are never too old for games. Come, Rhiannon. I will instruct you on some of the finer arts.”

 

 

It’s sundown when you hear the shouting. 

“On behalf of the Chantry! Open your doors and come out quietly!”

Slowly, slowly you open the door and peek your head out. There are three templars standing outside, faceless and helmed, their armor a glossy gray patina shimmering with a violent red sheen. Two of them draw their swords when you slide your body under the eave, but one templar, far to the right and slimmer than the rest, lets go of his sheathed sword and murmurs something low and hurried to his companions.

The man in the middle roughly shakes his head, and the last templar uneasily adds his sword to the fray. 

The door widens and Flemeth stands behind you, placing a hand heavily on your shoulder. “Well, well. It would seem we have some unexpected guests,” Flemeth says, “Shall I have the child put the kettle over the fire? ‘Tis a long walk from Lothering, and I would loathe for you to return completely empty handed.”

Their leader slices his hand through the air, “Quiet! We are not here to play games, witch. Come calmly and, Maker willing, you will be spared. Resist, and perish.”

“So many options.” Flemeth teases, “And what of my girl? What mighty plans does the Maker have for her?”

It is the last man who speaks this time, gentler than the other by far. “If she is free of magic, she will be taken to the Chantry, ma’am. Otherwise, she will be given to the Circle."

“And do you know that from experience, young man?”

He seems ready to answer, his free hand wrapping around the token at his neck, but is swiftly interrupted.

“Do not speak to her, initiate-- who knows what profane magic she possesses.” The leader says, softer than you could have believed. The young templar slumps at the reprimand and you wish, unfruitfully, that you could see their faces. The leader’s voice is so much harder when he says, “Answer me now, Apostate, before I am forced to make a decision for you.”

Flemeth’s hand digs deep into your muscle.  “The decision was always yours, Ser Templar.” Her humor is gone, her voice gone to gravel, “Leave now and, your Maker willing, you all shall live. Stay, and perish.”

The templars raise their shields, Flemeth opens her arms, and you start running.

You run faster than you ever have, leaping over streams and bounding over roots. You’re being followed --the jangling of the plate is unmistakable in the quiet night-- but you think there is only one. The fear falls behind you as you flee, but for reasons far beyond you, this is becoming thrilling. Almost fun. After all, what is there to fear? There is a plan, there are allies, and you’ve come to know this land like your own.

The sun sinks as you lead the chase. You know the way.

The clearing is dark but for the light of the rising moon, your pond as black as ever. You stumble in the reeds, your eyes rising to the rift of the cliff, fringed with trees. A stick cracks behind you, and your turn in a swirl of skirt.

The templar takes off his helm, dropping it to the grass. When you realize it’s Edric you feel your heart drop and the joy quickly fades. Edric raises his hands, palms out in prostration, before he lowers them to his sword. When your back stiffens, ice flaking at your feet, he shakes his head and gently says a single word. “Peace.”

And the sword falls down with the helm.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

“But my mother?”

“That--” He can’t find words, and you’re grateful for that, you don’t want him to seem sane, but then he says, “That was badly done. I’m truly sorry. I wish there was another way.”

“There is.” You say quickly, “Go back. Leave me be.” Your gaze lingers behind him, searching, “Quickly.”

“The wilds is no place for a girl on her own. The Circle is the safest place for you. I’ve a sister there-- It will take time, but you can find happiness there, I know it.”

He steps forward, you step back. The anxiety creeps around your heart, strangles your voice, “Leave. _Please_.”

“I understand you’re scared. I will not hurt you, but I will use force if I must.”

He comes gentle, kindly corralling. It lets you see behind him clearly, lets you see a thousand eyes creeping in the gloom. You make a snap decision, between one heartbeat and the next, and lift your hand to him, stomach sinking at the soft smile on his face. Your fingers brush and then--

The giant spider’s spindly legs wrap around Edric like a vice, mandibles ripping his neck in twain and splattering you with his hot blood.

 

 

“Have you yet to witness death?” Morrigan asks. 

Your reverie breaks. You’ve been staring at Edric’s body for a long while, long enough for Morrigan to change form and stand before you, breaking your line of sight with the length of her body.

“No. Not like that.” You say quietly. You lift your face to hers and try to ground yourself in the moment-- in the realities. “Thank you for…Thank you.”

Morrigan waves away your thanks, “One does their part. ‘Twas easy enough with him so distracted.”

She kneels beside the body, her hand cupping an open flame. For some reason it’s that that ruins you; Edric is _dead_ and she means to _burn_ him and his blood is on your _face_. Bile rises in your throat but you swallow it down, cringing quietly at the sickly burn.

“Wait!” You cry out as she touches fire to his clothes.

Her light flashes out and she stares up at you, perturbed. “What?” She snaps, looking down and then up before asking, “Did you want it?”

Want what, you nearly ask, before you see the tokem held between her fingertips. Up close you can see the details-- a primitive looking stag’s head, carved of redwood, beaded leather thong connecting from one antler to another. The wood is worn in the middle like someone had worried it one too many time between his fingers.

“I do.” You say. Saving it from the flames seems right; makes you feel better. Burning it would be like a second death.

Morrigan cringes as she unties it from his split neck, and drops it, tacky with blood, into your hands. “It looks Chasind.” She says, hand once more alight, “One wonders where he got it.”

 

 

Morrigan leaves, but you stay. You need to wash away the blood, you tell her. 

Edric’s body takes four hours to burn.

 

 

You’ve changed. The rest stays the same. 

It takes some time for the grass to grow back outside your hut. The bodies were gone once you’d wandered home that night, but there was smoke in the air, and the whole place smelled of roasted meat. A dragon, you assumed. _A dragon_ , the whispers agreed.

You think about it while you work. It would be useful, to become an animal. To run, to hide, and maybe, if --when-- you really needed it, to fight. Mortar and pestle in hand, you ask Morrigan over the sound of scraping, “Could you teach me to shapeshift as you do? Like the spider?”

“I could if I had the desire to.” She says as she chops, “I do not.”

Flemeth’s snort breaks the work’s rhythm. “Then find it.” You both look back in tandem, faces affixed. “It will be a far better use of your time than flitting about town, looking to be admired.”

“Excuse me? I do not _flit_ about.” Morrigan looks affronted on multiple accounts. She points her shiny knife in your direction and protests, “But that is not even the point! Her control is weak, her rune casting is horrific, and I’ve never even seen her _attempt_ a flame outside the fireplace. What makes you think she could even hold the spell?”

“Let’s not be delusional, girl-- I remember your runes when you were her size. And Rhiannon can cast fire well enough, she simply chooses not to.”

“I don’t want to cause a forest fire.” You try to explain.

It would probably be better if you hadn’t said anything at all. Morrigan looks at you like you’ve grown a third head, mouth agape and brows slung low. She stares at Flemeth, ’Can you believe what’s just come out of her mouth?' written plain across her face, but Flemeth, unconcerned, merely shrugs.

Morrigan makes a noise of deep disgust, throws her hands up, and leaves the hut.

  
“She can’t avoid you forever.” Flemeth says, “But she will try." 

"Couldn't you just teach me?" You ask.

"And where would be the fun in that? Now, about your control..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BlOoD fOr ThE bLoOd GoD!!!
> 
> Edric, we hardly knew ye. I should probably add a tag for violence? I forgot how much I liked death. 
> 
> I've decided I'll post once a week on Fridays. This fic is going to span all the way to Inquisition (maybe more??) and I've read all the books and comics so... This is gonna be a long one lol. Anyways, see you next week!


	5. part one: the wilds - CHANGE

Flemeth has you destroy the tower in the lake.

You topple it with small, precise shots of fire. The cragged walls crackle and snap in the wake of your small siege, dropping into the water with splattering splashes-- never before has magic felt more like a video game. Unfortunately, the fire spreads to the poor sick sycamore, the flames licking and twisting the tree into a pointed black spear.

Still, the deed is done.

“Hurrah.” You cheer with mild enthusiasm as you survey the charred remains of your handiwork.

Flemeth doesn’t look overly impressed --not that she ever does-- but she does nod in acknowledgment, which is nearly praise as far as she’s concerned. “Well, there’s your fire.” She snarks, “As for your control? I suppose no one is perfect. Pray you don’t mangle yourself into a half-beast.”

“...A what?”

She fans away your concern and starts walking, “You’ll be fine. Probably.”

 

 

It isn’t more than a few weeks until Morrigan relents.

Morrigan acts as if she decided to take on your shapeshifting training with her own free will, but you think it’s more likely that she got tired of Flemeth’s nagging. One day she tosses you an ancient scroll --with far too much faith that you will catch it-- and queenfully orders you to read and take heed, “Unless, of course, you wish to become an unnatural amalgamation.”

“...A what?”

She doesn’t answer because she is far more like her mother than she will ever admit.

Fortunately, and perhaps a little unfortunately, the scroll answers all of your questions and more. Written by a Chasind shaman with a morbid fascination of the grisly details, the scroll recites the trials and tribulations of mages who tried to undertake the art of shapeshifting. The steps and explanations are very informative, but it’s the witness accounts of attempts gone wrong that keep you up in the wee hours of the morning, worrying the token wound around your neck and wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into.

You read it not once, but twice, just to be sure. Though the scroll is curled thick over the rollers, it doesn’t take you long. Ever since that last night with the templars you can’t bring yourself to wander like you once did. The whispers are louder without the fresh air, and you’re certainly tempted sometimes; the days are long, the cicadas are singing, and the sun’s gentle warmth is soft as an embrace.

But… But...

Nothing is more important than knowledge, you tell yourself. But you make sure to keep the door open while you read so you can watch the sunlight slowly slide across the floor.

 

 

Your self imposed exile isn’t allowed to last more than a month. Once the scrolls are set aside, Morrigan instructs you to watch animals and describe their behaviors to her. Birds, first, then deer, mice, moles, fish and frogs. Finding them is half the battle, and staying still long enough to keep them in your sights isn’t even a little easy.

You never go more than a mile out of your way, perhaps to your own detriment. Morrigan gets annoyed when you come to her without a sighting to describe, which is… honestly more often than you like to admit. The shame wells white hot in the pit of your stomach when she levels you with a glowing glare but you don’t change your ways.

Luck finds you. There’s a small hill no more than a stone's throw away from the hut. In a crag in its curve is a snug little den, home to flame bright fox either too young or too stupid to be scared of you. On a whim, you roll an egg towards him (your forgotten breakfast left heavy in your pocket) and he chomps down on it greedily, chasing the yolk dribbling down his maw with a pink tongue. After a few days of handouts he’s nearly friendly, letting you watch him hop haphazardly over the rocks, chittering playfully like a loon.

You start to tell Morrigan about your progress with the fox, although you’re not entirely sure this is what she has in mind. She doesn’t tell you to stop, though, so you don’t. You start running about with him in the mornings for just a few minutes before he scampers off to do fox things. Your stomach is emptier with the loss of your breakfast, but it brightens your day-- you slide yourself out of bed first thing when you wake up instead of lying about and trying to forget yourself.

It’s when the leaves start turning to colors that you finally catch the little devil, your hand sliding slickly over his pelt from head to tail. He snaps around before you even realize you’ve got him and his needly little teeth slice down your hand like a booby trap.

“He was only playing, though.” You explain, heels kicking under your chair and she prods some poultice over your palm.

Morrigan hums ominously.

The next day she strides past you out the door. “Come along then, beastie.” She calls over her shoulder.

 

 

It’s simple, she says. Maybe it is for her.

You feel the fade flood over your skin, cold as silk. You think of foxes-- their heavy, steady tails; their swiveling ears; their bristle thick fur sliding under your hand, _on_ your hand, up your arms and over your shoulders. Your skin crawls as it changes but you must continue. What was after that? After that were the little needle teeth, parting your skin like a paddle through water, like Morrigan had parted Edric’s neck with the knife point of her mandibles and--

Oh, oh god.

_Stop, STOP, LET IT FALL, stop, stop, stop._

What had they said? Half-beasts and unnatural amalgamations. The panic peels down your skin and sends you spinning. Your fear sits heavy in your skull, weighing you down until you lay grounded. Not you, you convince yourself, not today. You let the whispers waft past you, listen to their steady beat and let the fade fall, fall, fall.

When your eyes are you own again you see Morrigan, face flat and frozen, and are glad you didn’t have to see what she did.

 

 

The leaves start to loosen, and you never get as far as that fateful day.

“I find it strange that you yourself are the one who asked for this and yet you cannot seem to focus on the task at hand.”

She’s right and somehow that makes it worse. You’re wired and reluctant and wasting time. Your head falls, “I’m sorry... I’ll try harder.”

“‘Tis not a matter of trying.” Morrigan says.

She looks up, her attention caught in the claws of a raven alighting on the branch above. He’s a large beast, eyes rimmed with red, and he seems just as fascinated with the two of you as you are with him. You move your head to the side, trying to get a better look through the russet leaves, and he tilts his head in tandem, almost teasingly, before he lets loose a mocking caw and takes to the sky.

“Does the death of the young templar still weigh on your mind?”

You blink once, twice, and think about lying.

But it seems that Morrigan doesn’t really want you to answer, or rather, she already has one in mind. She turns back her attention, head tilted not like you, but like the bird, and says, “It should not. Had I not shown up as I did he would have ferried you off to the Circle without a second thought.” Her smirk is dangerous, “Unless, of course, that is what you wanted? One could hardly blame you, after all, it is so much _safer_.”

She’s circling like the raven circles the sky, but you’re not the child she thinks you are and you understand her meaning perfectly clear. “You think I wanted to go with him.” You say succinctly, seeing as she will not.

“Am I wrong? It seemed to me you were quite taken by his words.”

You shake your head and look down, threading your fingers through the grass. “It isn’t that I wanted to go with him, I just wish it didn’t have to be like... that.”

“Like what?”

“Like-- _that_. Like…” Your teeth sink into your lip, “I just… I wish we didn’t have to kill him.”

Morrigan rolls her eyes, utterly unsympathetic, “And what are the alternatives, hm? We let him live and he goes back to his Chantry, telling tale of our whereabouts? What do we when the next horde arrives? Lay down our lives? Go quietly into our shackles?"

“I _know_ all that.” Your fingers clench, ripping the blades from the dirt. The lock lets loose and the words start tumbling out before you can dam them, “I know it’s bigger than him, or than us! I just think it’s sad that he died, that I helped _kill_ him. I know this is just the way things are and there’s nothing I can really do about it but that doesn’t mean I can’t… feel something about it. I mean, is that so wrong?”

“I suppose not, so long as you remember yourself.” Her answer surprises you, and you’re forced to look up. She looks nearly wise, staring down at you as she is. She purses her lips, thoughtful and hesitant, before she says, “You mustn't let your emotions cloud your thoughts. There are those who will do to us as we did to your templar, and worse, should we let them. What is left to us is survival-- and only the strongest survive. When you wonder about what should have been, remember that it was your freedom against his life.”

It feels wrong to nod, but you do. There is so much more you want to say about templars, about mages, about worth. About how you can’t sleep sometimes because you see Edric’s face behind the black of your eyes. But you’re not sure that Morrigan will entertain these thoughts, or worse, if she will mock you, so you keep them to yourself.

“Do you even understand?” She asks doubtfully.

“Yes, I do.” And you nearly mean it. This world is so different than your own-- it has it’s own rules, it’s own dangers, but you’re trying to fit yourself into it.

“Good.” Morrigan sits up suddenly, preening self-consciously. You think she’s said more to you than she intended.

“Thank you, Morrigan.” You say. You’re not sure if you fully comprehend yet, or even if you agree, but you think that she _means_ well, and that’s definitely something worth showing gratitude towards.

  
Morrigan scowls, but you think the tooth has gone out of it. “I have done nothing that needs thanks. I simply do not want you to fall prey to a demon of despair and have to wake up to an abomination in the night. Now, shall we continue?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd post these on Friday but I get SO EXCITED. So here we are on Thursday.
> 
> Morrigan is a fun character to write for. She's not a bad person, per say... But she is pretty mean (I still love you bb). This Morrigan is very young and doesn't have the broad experiences that DA:I Morrigan can draw from, so while she's not very thoughtful, neither is she awful-- and she does sort of value politeness, and Reader is nothing if not that lol. Anyways this is just a roundabout way for me to say expect some BONDING! Sort of!


	6. part one: the wilds - FOXES

Freedom against life. Hm.

You watch the fox watch you --your hair a tattered flag in the breeze, and his ruffled tail as thick as the wind-- and turn Morrigan’s words inside out, like a shirt pulled off to see the seams. She was right in certain lights, you accede. Dim lights, with more shadow than bright, but still right.

The fox shakes his red head and stands. You’re sure he’d never do anything useful if he didn’t have to (and honestly, same) but he doesn’t have enough time to spend all day with you like this. He has to go scrounge for carcasses, catch mice, and lap water from questionable sources. Fox things.

 _Hm_.

Just like that, it all comes together, like song follows sound.

You feel the fade fall over you like a fur shroud, and where there once was a girl is now a fox, natural as breathing. You run scampering after your friend into the wilds so you can do fox things, too.

 

 

 

You begin to wander once more, but never any further than you did before. At least, not until the Autumn Market.

One day you wake to see Flemeth with her wicker basket hanging heavy on her arm, topped almost to tipping with leather pouches and murky glass vials filled with sickly colored liquids. “We are going to the market to trade.” Flemeth tells you as you wipe the sleep from your eyes. Her eyebrow lifts at your stupid expression and for clarity’s sake she adds, “The ‘we’ includes you.”

Morrigan descends the ladder with her sackcloth fat and loaded. She sighs when she sees you pull a bag over your shoulder to help, but she makes no attempt to protest. After a quick breakfast of apples and old bread, you leave the hut and enter the goldenrod day. Like cogs in a machine, everyone begins to place the packs into the tiny, battered boat that's hid like Waldo among the reeds. You wade in through the water and over the side, picking wet, red leaves off your bench before taking an oar in hand. Morrigan unties the boat from a slender aspen, hops in, and just like that you are gone before you quite realize what’s happening.

A market will mean people, you realize in a magical fit of insight, and people means… Well, you’re not quite sure what that means anymore. You try to sink your anxiety into the water with your oar, leaving it swirling and whirling behind you.

  
Two hours up a slow moving slough and you find yourself at a makeshift tradepost settled on planks placed helter-skelter along a muddy shore, the scant land around crowned by a ring of tiny moss-flecked cottages balancing precariously on poles. The area is bordered by a bluff wove solid with willows, oaks, and some strange, wide trees you’ve never seen before. You’re relieved and disappointed to see no more than thirty, perhaps forty people milling about, and more than a few dogs as well. It’s more souls than you’ve come across in months, but with fearsome relief you’re treated with the knowledge that there are, indeed, _other_ people in this world.

But they are still not your people.

They’re Chasind. They wear rough cotton limned with dyed hide, covered liberally with leather and made fashionable with beads and bracelets. And they speak a different tongue-- Alamarri, you recall from your reading. Their gargling language glues itself to your ears, the whispers unearthing their words like sap down a siphon, slow and steady. You’ve read about Chasind folk in history books, have read history written _by_ Chasinds, and yet nothing could prepare you for seeing their bold, painted faces living and breathing before you.

Nor would anything have prepared you for the smell...

Everyone is conspicuously not looking at your boat as you tie it to the rickety dock. They know, you realize quite quickly, what Flemeth is, but the question you’re really interested in is if they know _who_ she is.

Flemeth lays out a blanket on the planks --as if she was any old trader instead of a crazy, ancient swamp witch-- besides an equally old woman peddling baskets and a man with a mohawk and a menagerie of axes. She lines up her poultices and potions in nearly-neat lines, smiling enigmatically at the people who pass. They nod back, their eyes filled full of respect… and just the faintest touch of fear.

“What do I do?” You ask while Morrigan rummages through the baskets and packs

Flemeth shrugs with one shoulder, so uninterested that she can’t bother to give you the full gesture. “Talk to people, talk to birds, pick pockets, pick acorns… What do I care?”

“That’s not very helpful.” You say evenly.

Flemeth snorts. “Am I ever? For that matter, are _you_ ever?”

“Well, no…”

Morrigan hops off the boat as soon as everything is set up, landing catlike on the dock “Yes, well, on that absolutely riveting note,” Morrigan begins, “I will be taking my leave.” And like that she wraps herself in the wings of the crowd. You think Morrigan looks nearly in her element, pleased as punch to be among people who clearly appreciate her, if the roaming eyes of the men and women are to be trusted. Her slow smile is slung like a jewel on a chain, meant not to be touched, but to be admired, as she trades thoughtfully with sharp-eyed vendors.

You pick acorns.

Standing in the crowd is too much too fast, no matter how interesting the things are on display, and you wind up walking off the dock, up a creaking wooden staircase, and onto the crest of the bluff. From up here you can see the going-ons down below as you fill one of the cloth bags with acorns from the forest of oaks.

You let out a yelp when you realize there’s a boy in the trees, rangy and stretched in the way thirteen year olds excel at, with black hair to his shoulders. The fear fades quickly when he shakes the oak tree branches for you with a shy smile. The acorns drop down like hail, and you laugh as they fall into your bag and knock onto your skull. He hops down after a while to help your harvest, kind but quiet, and once your bag is full he hands you a bruised pear from his own pocket. More touched than the gesture probably warrants, you try to express your warm thanks in Chasind Alamarri-- at least you think you do. His face burns redder than clay after your short, halting speech, and you’re left wondering if the whispers know the language as well as they think they do.

His name is Samik, and when he awkwardly asks for yours, there’s really only one on offer. Rhiannon. He tests your name on his tongue before the pair of you descend into silence, munching on pears and observing the hubbub below. You almost want to say something, but the quiet seems to suit him, and you're lost in thoughts anyways.

You wave at him from your boat before you leave, the poor vessel filled almost to the waterline with pounds of barley, sacks of lentils and hulking rounds of cheese. From the shadow of the bluff, you think you see him wave back.

  
Tucked under your own furs that night, you think back on the day and realize, with a bit of wonder, that you’d enjoyed it.

 

 

 

The snow drifts in like fairy dust, pretty but pointless, carpeting the grasslands and dissolving over the muddy marsh. With the biting winds and the late season cold comes your new obsession-- food. You remember all too well the books you read with sob stories set around starving in the winter, and you are not interested in any of that.

There are, of course, the obvious suspects to pursue in the pantry: the big bags of barley and lentils, the apples, the cheese, the potatoes and the rest of the random root vegetables. When it comes to food, you’re always critically aware of how much you have, how much you eat, and how much you’re planning to eat. Each morning you turn over the apples so they don’t over ripen, check sack cloths for nibbles and reinforce the wards, ‘just in case’.

Flemeth has you make flour from your acorns, which sounds fancifully fairy-like until you spend several sweaty hours boiling the hulls and pounding them into powder. The bread it makes it good, though, nutty and dark, sitting like a warm stone in your stomach.

Morrigan watches you obsess over the larder like there’s something a bit wrong with you, and maybe there is. One white morning she brings you and a tight-woven basket to the sloughs and streams to teach you a thing or two. She points out where the freshwater clams roost, shows you a few simple spells to stun fish, and when you walk back together she has you uproot cattails from the chilly muck and sift through the shallows for watercress.

You and the fox often find little delectables to eat. Your pointy wet nose sniffs out onions and garlic among the ice, and your little black paws are ideal for digging. One day you tramp home in fox form with a fat turtle wiggling by his leg from between your teeth. It’s the first time you hear Morrigan laugh, and the soup she makes with your little friend tastes delicious.

 

 

 

When the ground first begins to thaw Flemeth magnanimously lets you pick a chicken as a prize. You think she’s probably mocking you, but you feel like you deserve it all the same. Since winter’s start you learned several new wards, started constructing glyphs, can send beasts to sleep in a snap with a hex, and, after a few out-of-this-world nights of sleeping in an occupied cave, add the ability to turn into a bear to your belt.

You choose to sacrifice Rowan because she is fat and terrible. Your true reward is not the chicken dinner, delicious as it is, but the knowledge that you are forever safe from her bloodthirsty beak.

 

 

 

It’s not yet warm, but you’re sitting outside in the sunshine anyways because you missed it.

You bite a hanging thread off from your favorite shirt, which is admittedly more patch than not these days, and look out across the clearing. Flemeth has the big kettle nestled snug over a fire, slowly stirring the sopping fragrant soap with one hand, and reading out of a palm-sized book with the other.

“If I told you I was leaving,” You say, “What would you do?”

“Pray for the dead.”

You stab your needle through the thread and force out a half-hearted, “Ha.”

“If the call of village life lures you, Lothering is a mere three leagues east, and another north. I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone willing to take in a wayward orphan.” She looks up from her book, lids low and lips lifted and says with a bit more bite, “We both know that I am not your mother, and though you may think otherwise, neither am I your jailer.”

“...not physically…” You mutter, ignoring, as you always do, the well of whispers lying like groundwater inside you.

“Oh? I’m curious, what hold do you think I have on you?”

“In which way do you mean?”

She actually laughs, “Don’t try to turn me in circles, girl, I’ve been doing it for longer than you’ve been alive.”

Ugh. You sigh with exasperation because Flemeth doesn’t even make you nervous anymore, she just makes you mental. “Suppose I’ll just stay here forever then.”

She rolls her eyes like you’re Morrigan in a snit rather than her outworld boarder asking important existential questions. “You know even better than I that that isn’t possible.”

How cryptic. “Do I?” You ask suspiciously.

“Well, no, I suppose not.”

And you’re around again to the start, an ouroboros choking on your own tail. She’s right, you’ll never be able to beat her at this game. Pretense pushed aside, you bluntly ask, as you do from time to time, “Why am I here?”

And she answers, like she always seems to, with a nonanswer. “Why not? Can you think of a better place to be?”

“In a castle, surrounded by servants who do all the sewing for me.” You say, sucking a spot of blood from your thumb and wishing Flemeth would teach you a healing spell already. Your eyes narrow a tad as your thoughts twist on, and you turn to point an accusing needle in her general direction, “And you know, it isn’t that you’re any better at it than me, it’s just that you have absolutely all the answers.”

She laughs again, but it’s wryer this time, as cool and clean as wintergreen soap.

“If only that were true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am weak. Here is your chapter. I guess... Friday... may not be a thing. New rule! New chapter every week BY Friday. Ha!
> 
> This chapter was so fun to write, and a lot kinder to the Reader. I think I feel a bit bad over giving her PTSD lol. 
> 
> I love writing about food so much, and also, everyone should try acorn bread it's bomb. Also also, no one loves the hermit-witch-in-the-woods trope more than I do, but I always wonder what they're eating?? They never seem to have farms or... human contact, and while spending your time learning magic and reading is certainly interesting, a paying occupation it is not. Oh, and let me know if you liked the Chasind bit! I do love them (as I, too, live in a disgusting marsh surrounded by trees), but I won't waste more time on them if it's boring. 
> 
> Next chapter we're going to Lothering and meeting up with some old friends-- take a guess at who we'll be seeing?


	7. part one: the wilds - RAVENS

You flap into the air and your fox friend jumps after you, his sharp teeth snapping at your tail feathers. He may not catch you but he still manages to make you squawk. He chitters with laughter, twisting round and round in circles before chasing after you into the wilds.

Truly, there is nothing so wonderful as wings.

Once you learn them you feel like you must do something _\--anything--_ with them. The winds take you to the only place you can think to go, the Chasind village to the south. Samik sees you coming out from the trees and greets you with a quiet smile, asking no questions and expecting no answers. He finishes his chores in a flash and takes you by Chasind trails to a large lake fat with fish. There, he silently teaches you stillness. Together you catch fish barehanded, but not until after a bit of failure and a lot of laughing-- more than a few trout slip past your fingers and flop back into the water. Stunning them with spells is easier, of course, but the game is nice.

It was a wonderful day, made better by company. But with only the sky as your limit, is it no wonder you’re becoming restless?

 

 

 

Three leagues east and another north. Though it sound simple enough said aloud, the basic truth is that you really don’t know the way to Lothering. Flemeth clearly  does, but she never goes, and of course, she likes nothing more than to be contrary. Morrigan, on the other hand… Morrigan _might_ take you.

You gather a handful of Andraste’s grace, sprigs of stark white bloodroot, frothy boneset, and a few golden irises. You fold and twine their stems together, weaving a great garland of spring flowers sure to lure anyone’s eye, and present it to Morrigan at mid-morning while she reads beneath the shade of a willow.

“And what is this?” She asks, more perplexed than you’ve seen her in a long time.

“For you. To wear.” You point to her crown’s tinier cousin nestled on your head and smile so sweetly Flemeth would have accused you of simpering.

Her eyes narrow to arrow points, “And just where did you get this ridiculous notion?”

“I just thought…” Your shoulder slopes, your face falls, “The yellow with your eyes. I thought you would look pretty.”

You let the crown hang forlornly in your hand as you turn to leave. You only have to take a step or two before you hear Morrigan pronounce testily. “Wait. I never said I would not have it.”

When you turn back you smile is so bright one would wonder if you’d truly ever lost it at all. “Oh! Here--”

She takes it from your hands before you can crown her, almost desperately, and brings it to the relative safety of her lap. She examines you closely as she thumbs the petals, capitulated but never placated, and tempestuously says, “Out with it, then. You need not play games.”

You blush a bit but your grin widens, crinkling your nose. “Would you bring me with you to Lothering?”

“I think not. You would only get in the way.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” You say honestly, “You know I wouldn’t.”

She stops to think and sighs. No matter how often she laments your presence (less and less as time goes by) there is no way she can deny the easiness of your company-- you’re not a real child, so it isn’t like you’re ever underfoot, and exing out some outliers, you’re not even that emotive. “Fine.” She relents, “I suppose you may join me. But I shall not have you hanging on my skirts like a fretful burr! Are we clear?”

“As glass.”

 

 

 

Morrigan takes to the sky on black wings, and you glide close behind.

It turns out that Lothering is not actually four leauges away. Morrigan informs you that the old Imperial Highway, which _eventually_ leads to Lothering, is four leagues away. Fortunately she knows a much faster route.

The woods are wild and wonderous from above. Together you soar past islands bogged in marsh, through idyllic farms turned fresh with spring, and then over the cragged and ancient Imperial Road. After two hours Morrigan flies behind the dark of a tree and emerges as a woman, and you quickly follow suit.

It isn’t more than five minutes until you hear a cart lumbering around the bend in the road, pulled noisily by a hunkering druffalo. As the farmer passes, Morrigan sends him a sly smirk from beneath the dip of her hood. You spend the rest of the bumpy journey sitting on sacks of seeds in the back while Morrigan pretends to laugh at the man’s poor attempts at humor.

“And what brings your type all the way ‘round here?” The man asks.

 _And what do you mean by_ that _?_ you can almost hear her say. But she grits her teeth and replies with false cheer, “Oh, nothing of great import. My sister and I are simply in need of… a goat.”

The man snaps his reigns and smiles dimly at that, “Well, you’re in luck then. I might know a woman.”

“How _marvellous_.”

You bite your cheek to keep from laughing.

Morrigan looks like she’d love nothing more than to end the conversation right there. Of course, the man seems to have no sense of that. He continues on, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice. “Yes, indeed. Think she said her nanny had some kids last spring. Should be willing to part with one, I believe... Yes, I believe she’s got kids to spare.”

Morrigan spares you a dry glance and says, “Don’t we all?”

 

 

 

You are so clearly not from ‘around here’.

You’d thought, perhaps naively, that all poor people dressed as you did. The truth? They really, really didn’t. Maybe if you’d been dropped off here right off that bat, instead of into straight into Flemeth’s maws, you’d have thought this place was run down and dirty. But now? Well, anything beats a few ramshackle huts hung over a poisonous swamp… and for better or worse, you had fit in much better there than here.

Morrigan shoos you away basically as soon as the cart stops rolling, citing ‘important things to do’ and reminding you of ‘certain promises made’.

You jump off with your usual good humor and begin to look around. The clanging of the blacksmith catches you attention first, and you stop to watch him meld cherry red metal like pretzel dough. You probably could have stayed there all day, watching the blacksmith’s apprentice work with his outrageously thick arms, but there is so much more to look at. You see your first Thedosian horse in the stalls by the tavern; a pretty thing with a golden coat and a cream white mane. You flit from there to the town square, listening to men and women trade with each other as they pretend not to stare at you. You wonder absently to yourself if learning to be a horse would be worth it while you walk over to the Chantry and pretend to look over the Chanter’s Board.

You’d noticed, quite quickly, that you’d managed to pick up something of an entourage. You check over your shoulder to see if they’ve gone yet, but no, they’re still there, four or five kids around ‘your age’ with patched knees, crossed arms, and devious smirks. They don’t have kind eyes like Samik does. Looking down at your tattered skirt and your savage looking necklaces, you realize they may have something of a bone to pick. It seems some things never change.

They step stealthily towards you so you thoughtlessly wander into the Chantry yard. Surely even bored village kids wouldn’t bully you in a place of worship? You step inside  to find out.

 

 

 

It’s empty inside. Are you trespassing, you wonder? With a shrug you decide that you might as well stay until someone says otherwise.

The chantry is not unlike a church, you realize as you explore. Rough hewn pews, high stone walls, a podium, and a vestibule hiding in the back-- what truly makes it holy, however, are the stained glass windows hung high above which send glowing watercolors splashing across the hall.

You slide yourself into a seat, rest your arms on the back of a pew, and just look at them for awhile.

There are three windows, the two smaller flanking an impressive depiction of Andraste and a fiercely flaming sword. There are probably bigger, more beautiful windows elsewhere, in cities like Val Royeaux and Denerim, perhaps, or in more populated towns like Redcliffe, but to you, in this moment, they are unmatched. You think about the lead, the glass, all the people in between here and there, and lay down your head to ponder it all. It’s cold in here, but it’s hot outside, and in the distance there is singing, sweet voices chanting praises, and--

Footsteps. Your head rises. Did they follow you after all?

“Ah, please excuse me. I did not mean to interrupt your prayers.”

In the aisle is a lovely woman, lit ruddy in a shaft of ruby light, with bright blue eyes and pale red hair. You are quite suddenly tongue tied, your hand reaching up to anxiously grasp the token around your neck. “I-- I wasn’t. I mean, you didn’t... I’ll just be going.”

You move to stand but she shakes her head with a sympathetic smile that seems to reach in and pour out and says, “No, please, stay. The Chantry is a place of worship, yes, but more than that it is a place of peace. Besides, I often find myself lonely in such a large room. I would be honored if you kept me company.”

You sit softly once more, and she takes her place a little ways away from you. You watch as she smooths the the skirt of her robes before bowing her head and clasping her hands in prayer, ginger lashes gently pressed against the curve of her cheek. Her lips move silently, bubbling with the beat of a faraway song, unconsciously unalone.

It takes… some time. But eventually you come to accept that, yes, this is indeed your life, and you turn your attentions once more to the shifting light.

Time passes, a few minutes maybe. Her eyes blink open and her hands fall to her lap. She laughs a little before she says, “I should probably have introduced myself first. I am Leliana, a lay sister here. Although, perhaps the robes speak for themselves… Ah, but you are Chasind, are you not?”

“Yes.” You say, because it’s true enough by now. You  think, only for a moment, before telling her, “My name is Rhiannon.”

“Rhiannon.” She repeats, “That is a lovely name-- it suits, I think. Like a wild rose.” Her smiles creases and she shakes her head, “But I digress. Have you been in the Chantry before? I am, ah, somewhat new, I should say, and I have not yet seen you. But then, I have heard tales that your people do not hold the faith?”

“I… No, I’ve never, and you’re right, we don’t. I think it’s very beautiful, though.” You search for something to say, something unsuspicious and normal, and find yourself once more gazing at the stained glass. Lids lowering in the gemmy light you ask, “Do you know what they mean? The pictures?”

“You wish me to tell you the story behind the glass?”

You nod.

Her eyes light up. “You are quite lucky, then, for I love to tell stories! The windows, they are a bit small, no? But I think it is because they are from Serrault-- very prestigious, and _very_ expensive. I was surprised to see them here when I first arrived. Ah, but the story! You have at least heard of Andraste, I presume? That is her in the center, burning with the might of the Maker. But it is best to start at the beginning, I think.” She gathers closer to you and points a slender finger to the leftmost frame, tracing the lines of lead as if she were an artist at an easel, “There she is again, standing in the light of the sun, and the shadowed man beside her is Maferath, who she is being given to in marriage. Andraste was born a chieftain's daughter, and Maferath was a warlord himself. Together their tribes brokered an alliance which united their people. Of course, it is said that Andraste was of the Alamarri.” Her head tilts as she ponders, “I wonder, is it still so among the Chasind?”

You squint. “Do you mean if there are still Chieftains, or if there are still warlords?”

“Both, I think.”

You mind wanders back to your books, but they spoke of the past, and she means the present. “Well, um. The further south you go, the older the traditions, and of course they are less… Ruled. But we don’t fight in many wars these days.” You say as if it were a fact, instead of a wild guess. To save any potential loss of face you tack on, “Or at least, not any that I’ve heard of.”

“But there are still tribes, yes? With their own names, histories and traditions?”

“Well, yes.”

Leliana’s quietly claps her hands together. “How quaint!”

You can tell she has a lot of questions for you, and, of course, you don’t have many ( _any_ ) answers, so you steer the conversation back to safer pastures-- yes, yes, please _do_ speak more of Andraste. There is guile in her smile as she continues the ancient tale, and you don’t think that you steered the conversation quite as deftly as you’d hoped. But then, what did you expect, trying to be clever with an infamous bard?

Leliana presumably sees little danger from a scrappy looking Chasind girl like yourself, so she humors your mystery, and you soon learn more about religious iconography than you ever really wanted to. Leliana can talk for a _very_ long time with _very_ little prompting. Luckily it’s interesting, and, well… it’s nice, to hear someone speak so kindly to you.

So you sit, and you listen, and you smile.

A bell rings from high above and Leliana startles from her chatter, “Oh! You poor thing, you have listened to me go on for a very long time. You should have stopped me!”

“It’s fine,” You say truthfully, “I liked it.”

She dimples, looking pleased. “Still, I am sure there is a very worried someone wondering where you are.” You’d laugh if that wasn’t more heartbreaking than humorous, and you think, somehow, she picks up on that. Gentler, she says. “Please, feel free to visit at any time. I would love to hear your Chasind tales.”

 

 

 

It turns out Morrigan meant it.

She lets you name the goat, because, “Why on earth would I have named the blasted creature?” In truth, you expected as much from her. She still refers to the chickens by their weight and color despite the fact that you gave them perfectly usable titles. Morrigan thinks it’s silly that you name them after famous people, but who else are you to name them for, if not the people in the history books?

Inspired by your chat with Leliana the goat is dubbed Vasilia. The name, at least, makes Morrigan smirk.

“Of course, burdened as we are,” Morrigan says, “We will have to walk back.”

Suddenly it isn’t so funny any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really got away from me. Believe it or not, it was going to be even longer... Oh well, next time!
> 
> I've recently begun a new playthrough of DA:O and have rediscovered my love of Leliana. She's brilliant in Inquisition of course --I'm really into that scary-spy shit-- but she's so cute in the beginning! And she talks SO much. She'll probably feature some more in the next chapter (or the one after that if my plans overflow again), so hopefully I'll be able to straighten her voice out. 
> 
> If everything goes to plan (ha) I think there should only be another four chapters of part one. I'm looking forward to writing the next leg of our adventure.
> 
> Thanks again for all your support! If you ever have any more questions, or just wanna chat or something, I have a janky looking tumblr: iriiscrowns.


	8. part one: the wilds - HAWKES

Vasilia likes you more than Morrigan. The fact clearly irritates her, but Morrigan holds the lead anyways, because she has control issues. You offer to take it off her hands after the nanny launches itself headfirst into her knees for the fourth time, but the answer is a resounding no.

Before you really get going (and also, perhaps, to distract you from the subject at hand) Morrigan anti-climatically reveals her second purchase-- a pair of boots meant for you. They’re a little too big, so you stuff the toes with rags, and they’re certainly not new-- but they’re yours! And they _match_! Walking is suddenly wondrous.

The Imperial Highway wanders on like a proud old man, straight backed but crumbling. After an hour or three, Morrigan stops still beside a bramble fence and shields her eyes against the glow of the setting sun. Down a drifting dirt road is a farm lording over a hill like a cake topper. “Go knock on the door and make yourself look pitiful, ‘tis time we laid down our heads.” She peers at your face and her mouth lifts mockingly, “My! Such a look. Do not play coy, we both know that you are well capable of it.”

Your face scuttles out of a scowl and into a pout, “What am I supposed to say?”

“Simply ask if we may make use of their barn for the night. You needn’t say very much, your sad orphan eyes should be enough.”

“Hey, I don’t…” Well, maybe you do. “Fine.”

You pinch some pink into your cheeks and knock your knuckles over your eyelids to get them nice and watery. Morrigan seems to hide a grin behind her fist when you head up the hill, but what do you know? Your sight is all blurry now. It isn’t far, but your feet think they’re walking in cement. The closer you get to the door the more you realize how embarrassing this might be. Which is probably why Morrigan volunteered you.

You knock once, twice, and the door pulls open. A very big boy blocks the doorway, and his face has to lower to look at you. “What do you want?” The boy says shortly, like he wants very much to be rude, but he isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but my sister and I have a long ways to walk and we wondered if we could sleep in your barn tonight.” Eyes wide, shoulders dropped. Just a _hint_ of a sigh. “We won’t be any trouble.”

Your words are well thought out, since you’d managed to rehearse your speech about five times before you got to the door. Of course, that doesn’t seem to matter a lick.

The boy glares past your head and into the sun. “Is that Beth’s goat?”

You squint. “What?”

He opens his mouth to reply, but his head is squashed down in an unfortunate collision with a woman’s hand. He swears something fierce, but the woman just leans her elbow over his neck like he’s a very nice armrest and proclaims, “Maker, you’re a bore. Can’t you even pretend to be polite?”

“ _Geroff_.” He mumbles furiously, slumping under her hold and out of the doorframe.

She watches him slip away before turning her bright blue stare on you. The woman has a face that just missed pretty: her hair is too coarse, her lips dry, and her nose looks like it was broken once or twice before. But her eyes are beautiful to the point of distraction. “Yes, well, sorry for that. How may I help you? Something about a goat?”

“I-- Yes. I have a goat.” You say, “...And a sister.”

Her smirk is somehow soft. “What a coincidence, so do I. I’m sure we can scrounge up something for all of you to eat, if that’s what you’re after. And if you need a place to sleep, you’re welcome to rest by our fire-- you and your sister, that is. I’m afraid the goat’s not invited.”

“You can’t just invite strangers into our house.” A familiar voice grouses out of view.

The woman turns back her head. “I’m sorry, Carver, but who did mother put in charge? What was that? Oh, right, _me_.”

Oh. That would be… Well.

 

 

 

Morrigan juts out a hip when you step beside her, looking too proud to be pleasant. Vasilia is straining at her rope. “You poor dear,” She simpers unconvincingly, “Did the peasants say no?”

“No, yes. I mean no, they said yes. Also they offered food?”

“Oh?” Morrigan’s face looks like she did not expect this outcome, but most of all, she did not _want_ this outcome.

“Are we going to eat the food…?”

 

 

 

Morrigan says no. You end up eating the food anyways.

Hawke Call-Me-Hawke Hawke sends a laughing Bethany out to tie Vasilia into the barn and then corrals you both inside. By some strange turn of events, Morrigan bought the goat from Leandra, who had elected to stay in town tonight at a friend’s residence. They say that ‘the world does not revolve around you’, but sometimes you wonder.

Dinner is simple; lentil and barley soup, nearly cold and scooped from a tulip necked tureen. Morrigan sips stiffly beside you, her smile stretched to the stitches as she nods pointily at Hawke’s attempted conversation. She is clearly only here because of Hawke’s forceful personality, and she _doesn’t_ seem to think very much of Hawke’s subtle attempts at flirting. Judging from the disdainful sniff of her spoon, she doesn’t think very much of the cooking either.

Carver sulks by the crackling fire, but he sticks around to listen to Morrigan tell a Chasind tale about a famed warrior who overtook his brother to become chief. Bethany, the only one wooed by your sad orphan eyes, sticks close to your side. You like to think it’s because you’re cute, but maybe she’s just intimidated by Morrigan.

“Do you have very far to go?” She asks quietly once you’ve finished your meal.

“Maybe.” You contemplate your journey with a spoon in your mouth. Two hours as the crows fly, but as a girl with a goat? “Perhaps another half day?”

“All that way for a goat!”

“And boots.” You say with poorly hidden enthusiasm.

“Oh, I see! They’re very nice. I’d like a pair like them.” She kindly obliges. Her smile doesn’t smirk like her sister’s, it’s too even and too clean, but it’s warm in the way Hawke’s is, reaching up into her eyes and setting them aflame.

It’s been a very long time… but you think this is what a family looks like. Looked like. It hurts when you remember what you know.

 

 

 

Morrigan thanks them with a tick in her cheek, and says that, while she appreciates the offer of their fire, the two of you should stick close to your new charge. Even Hawke must relent once Morrigan’s put her proverbial foot down. You, as ever, are caught somewhere between disappointment and relief.

Outside, a light mist clogs your lungs and shawls your shoulders. Inside, the barn air smells of hay, dusty but sweet, tinged with the expectedly unpleasant musk of animals. There’s a druffalo, a black horse, a bevy of sheep and three goats: one is Vasilia, her white star shining on her brow and a dark cloth tied becomingly around her neck. Morrigan and you climb a ladder to the hot loft and lay down your worn bodies on beds of cloak and hay.

You expect to fall asleep quickly. You almost do, until Morrigan’s voice cuts like a knife in the dark.

“I have a wonder.”

You tilt your head to her shadow. Her eyes gleam like a cat’s coin.

“I had assumed,” She continues, “That your desire to learn the art of shapeshifting would end with you in a form capable of flight, and I was correct. That would, after all, be my plan were I in your place. However, you learned several weeks ago, and are more than capable of making a long journey… and yet you are still _here_.”

The rain patters, the druffalo bays, and your breaths are a staccato in the silence that follows your thoughts. You had sometimes wondered what she thought, and what you would say. Ironically, it is Flemeth’s words you find yourself repeating, “Can you think of a better place for me to be?”

Morrigan huffs. It’s too dark to truly see, but you’d bet money she rolled her eyes. “Several! Have you no home, no family to return to? Did they perish? Did they not want you? Were I taken from my home, I would do my utmost to return, but you seem content to do nothing.”

You would tell her if you could. The answer she seeks, drained to its dregs, is really quite simple. Useless, even. After all, you doubt she’d tell anyone. How can she, when the picture’s broken into puzzle pieces? You have spent a very long time with Morrigan, here and there, and you think you trust her. Or at least… trust the person you know she can be.

You think Morrigan might even like you. Just a little. But…

_NO, keep it in, don’t, no, no, no, no, NO, no, no._

There’s no great truth to tell. But there is a little one.

“I can’t go back yet.”

She blinks. “No?”

“No.”

Morrigan rolls off of her side, onto her back, and you wonder if she’s willing to let the answer lie. “And I suppose you won’t tell me why.” She finally grumbles, “Mother did warn me, I suppose. I assume she’s privy to this, whatever this is.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You don’t--” She starts, and stops. _How can you possibly not know?_ It is very easy, you’ve learned since your arrival, not to know _anything_. Still, you get the feeling she doesn’t quite believe you. That’s fine with you, it’s up to her.

“Sorry.” You say into the gloom, “Goodnight.”

She hums in return. After that sleep comes quickly.

 

 

 

You wake at dawn, the early sun slanting across your eyelids.

The morning air is dewy and fresh as ice. Just a lungful makes you feel ready for anything. Vasilia’s lead winds up in your hand, somehow, and you wander to the well to get her watered. Hawke is there already with a bucket in hand, and you’re not even a little surprised-- she seems the type to be an early riser.

“There you are.” She says pleasantly, winding up the rope with strong arms, “If the two of you can wait just a minute, Beth would like to come out and smother you-- excuse me, _mother_ you some more. She just went in so... ah, yes, there. I should bet more often.”

You laugh like she wanted, and Bethany and Carver pour out the door. Carver just heads straight to the barn, probably to make sure you didn’t steal anything, and Bethany trips into a  sweet little half jog to greet you. In her hands is a cloth pulled tight over a suspiciously bread-like bundle.

“Oh, I’m glad we didn’t miss you. We made two this morning, so this just came out of the oven.” The bundle is pleasantly warm so you cradle it like space-heating baby.  “I’m sure you have your own provisions, but nothing really beats fresh bread, does it?”

“No, nothing really does!” You say cheerfully. It’s the little things-- your morning is now infinitely better. “Thank you so much for this. And for the dinner, as well. It was really delicious.”

Hawke laughs as she leads Vasilia to the bucket to drink. “You’re sweet, but you don’t need to lie. Mother’s gone, and the only one who’s a half decent cook is Carver… And half decent is generous. I suspect that bread will be a little burnt on the bottom.”

“It adds flavor.” You insist.

Hawke snorts. “Check her tongue, Beth?”

 

 

 

Time moves fast. One moment there, the next, on the road.

When you see their shadows on the hill, hands waving and white teeth gleaming, you let your smile fall. Hawke said that the next time the two of you make your way into civilization, you’re welcome to sleep in their barn again. It’s kind of her to offer, and you said you will.

But you won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, I actually updated on Friday for once.
> 
> Honestly, this chapter gave me a lot of trouble, and I still don't like it. I'm posting it now, but maybe I'll edit it later? I'm a little sick of looking at it. OH WELL. At least we got to meet the Hawke's! They're sweet, and it was nice writing some new character interactions.
> 
> Just a heads up-- I'll be out of town for the next two weeks so I might not be updating. I mean, I might still anyways? But I think my nana would judge me if I flew a plane halfway across the world and then spent my time on the computer, lol.


	9. part one: the wilds - GOLDEN

Summer comes softly, warm winds rushing the rain clouds away.

Flemeth leaves for days without notice, and Morrigan, quite frankly, was never really around in the first place. It’s a bit frightening at first --you’ve never been left alone for so long before, a day and a night at the most-- but it’s too lovely outside to spend long hours languishing lonesomely inside. You’d done enough of that last year.

Last year… How long will you have to live here? Not forever, you tell yourself in the dead of the night. _The fade, the fade,_ the voices drag down like a nail scoring down your spine. You press your palms to your ears to try to push away the pressure. You will go home, you _will_. But... You're here now. 

In a fit of melancholy you fly to Ostagar, where you explore the long left ruins and ponder your life. It’s strange to see life breathed into the pixels from your memories-- to weave through the shadows of the toppled columns and to hear the wind whistle through the long abandoned stone corridors. It’s eerie. Lonely. Perched upon the Tower of Ishal, you wonder at the vastness of the Wilds. And to think, there's a whole world just past it! Denerim, Orlais, Kirkwall and Antiva, and all the unknown lands way past the Waking Sea. It’s enough to send you into a stupor.

You wonder how much of it you will get to see before you leave. Because you will leave. You _will_.

 

 

 

Summer is a busy time for those with actual things to do, and Samik’s village is no different. He has little time to play, so you find yourself helping with his family’s chores. You fish in the summer-low slough, you clean the catches, and you (try) to help tend their farm’s furrows. You meet his family: his mother and father are as quiet as he is, and his two little sisters, with their corkscrew curls and their kitten gray eyes, silently follow you about like lost ducklings. Surprisingly, it’s his grandmother, with her hunched back and her crab apple face, that’s the most talkative of the bunch.

She startles you with a pinch while you’re sitting on the shore, trying (and failing) to untangle the nets while Samik tars his boats by the reeds. Her puckered mouth smacks in disapproval, and she pulls them from your hands before you even think to protest. “Aiyah! Have you any sense?” She wails, “You may be sweet, but this! No one with any sense can marry you when you work like _this_.”

“I’m… sorry?”

She just smacks her lips and tsk, tsk, tsks. Her bony fingers mince together like a well-oiled machine, and the nets are pristine in an instant. Once she’s fixed your mistake she shanghai’s you into helping with the spinning-- you’re too ashamed to say no and Samik’s token protest goes unacknowledged. Back in their shack, she makes working at the loom look easy, despite the fact that it really isn’t, and rambles as she works, telling you ancient tales and spinning Chasind fancies while Samik’s sisters suck their fists at your feet. Of course, the old crone manages to pepper her stories with some cutting criticisms of your cloth. When you try and make your polite farewells, she insists once more that no one will marry you, no matter how enticing your eyes are, until you fix your abysmal homemaking skills. You’re not that interested in getting married, but for some reason it gets you to sit down again.

Even after all that moaning and groaning, when you mention that there’s no one at home, nor had there been for several days, his grandmother insists you stay the night in that tiny shack, nevermind that they really haven’t any room. You’re still protesting as she tucks a blanket beneath your chin, the two little girls burrowed close to your side.

“Are you sure? I can still go...” You say once more.

“I am always sure.” Her chuckle is husky as she huffs out the rushlight, “Silent dreams for you all.”

 

 

 

Sleeping with Samik’s family was nice, but you have no interest in being a burden on them, so from then on you do your best to leave before sunset, with varying results. They don’t seem to mind the extra body, but they have so little to give, and you have nothing to return.

And, to be perfectly honest, their shack smells a little… fishy.

Alone in Flemeth’s hut, with no one around to tell you, “No, that’s a stupid idea.”, or to run you out of with the ever popular, “Shoo, beastie! Go outside.”, you find yourself doing things you usually wouldn’t… Like reaching up for the dusty, ill-used tomes stacked at the very top of Flemeth’s shelves. She'd never said you _shouldn’t_ read them, just heavily implied that you couldn’t, and besides, if she really cared enough to stop you, she’d have shoved them somewhere you couldn’t reach. Which is most places.

It doesn’t even feel that criminal. Frankly, you’re surprised by the strange things they keep up there. Flemeth thought you were capable of something as dangerous and life altering as shape shifting, but force spells and healing magic are shoved into the ‘no touch’ pile? This from the woman who left out an entropy book out on the table, flipped open to a page describing how to drain away a man’s very life? Really? How could that possibly be more worthy of study than bringing someone back from the brink of death?

The more you think about it, the more you wonder if she really cared at all. It might be a good idea to put in some practice by yourself.

 

 

 

When you find yourself with more than a thimble full of courage, you soar far and away. You fly by brown waters, past kindling-dry trees, and over the yellow thatch of the Hawke’s house as you follow the highway to Lothering.

On second sight, you find that you quite like Lothering. It’s a bit provincial, of course, but it’s bustling, in its own way, and the people don’t look at you _too_ strangely. Well, the adults at least. The same lanky kids are here as last time, so off you trot to the Chantry, quick as you can, winding down the packed dirt streets, passing under the arches, through the courtyard before--

“And who are you exactly?”

Your arm is caught in a firm grip. The question is muffled, the man’s voice smothered by his shining Templar’s helm.‘Stunned’ doesn’t feel quite right. Shocked? Terrified? Mortified? There hadn’t been a Templar here the first time you’d visited. Why in the world had you assumed there would never be?

Your knees knock and lock and your tongue turns to lead. “I… I…”

The doors to the Chantry creak open and a bevy of initiates exit, white skirts lifted high as they patter down the steps, their heads lowered it chatter.

“Rhiannon!” Leliana calls out at the head of the stairs. She sweeps through the courtyard quickly, her mouth stretched wide but her eyes focused. “What a surprise! But a happy one, to be sure.”

The Templar’s grip loosens, but he doesn’t let go. “Sister Leliana.” He greets tersely.

“Good morning, Ser Marin. Might you let go of this girl? She is a friend of mine, and I’m afraid you may have frightened her.”

You imagine, for a brief moment, that he will say no. He doesn’t. Easy as breathing, he lets go of your arm and nods, once, before turning back to his post. You can’t quite bring yourself to move, so Leliana takes you by the shoulders and leads you away. You hope you’re not shuddering over much.

She guides you to the Chantry gardens, between the shade of an elderly plum tree and an old stone wall overgrown with lilac. “Shall we sit here, perhaps? I often come here to think. It is quite beautiful, especially at this time of year.”

“It is lovely. It smells lovely! And… thank you for your help, with the templar. Not that I-- you know. Well, _anyways_ .” You smile stupidly because there’s really nothing else to do after saying something so ridiculously suspicious and try to gather the threads of you thoughts together. Why had you come here again? Your fingers worry the stag totem at your neck, thumb diving into its divot, and-- Chasind stories! Leliana had wanted to hear Chasind stories, and you’d wanted to learn more about life in Thedas. _Right_.

“You’re… from Orlais, aren’t you?”

Leliana is nice enough to let your social bumbling slide by with little more than a laugh, “Ah, is it the accent? You are correct. My mother was Fereldan, but I did grow up in Orlais.”

“It’s a nice accent!” You ascertain, “It just made wonder, you know, about what it’s like in Orlais.”

“Oh? And what were you wondering about?”

“Do they really all wear masks? _All_ day?”

Leliana giggles like a girl. She leans in with a grin and nods, furtively, like she has a great piece of gossip to share, and says, “Oh, yes. The nobles wear their masks in public, always, often times to their own detriment.”

“Detriment…? What happens to them?”

“Happens, happened. You see, my mother was in service to a noble lady, so I often saw women of renown in different stages of undress. The things I have witnessed...”

Leliana slowly begins to let loose the stories of her life in Orlais. Of course, she skirts quite nicely along the edges of being a bard, but you still grasp some snippets of intrigue, and she makes up for it with more than enough tales of noble buffoonery. When she is done she listens to your clumsily told Chasind tales with unfeigned fascination. The conversation twists and winds, from southern salves, to Fereldan flowers, and onto poetry that may or may not actually be about flowers. By the end of the morning, she’s taught you a few Fereldan folk songs and, after more sniggering than singing, half of an Orlesian tavern tune.

It’s… fun.

When the sun’s high in the sky she leads you past the templars and towards the gate, chattering all the way, and cheerfully tells you to come again. Outside the gates one of the village boys is leaning against the Chanter’s Board, gnawing on a purple plum. He's tall for his age, and skinny, with hair light enough to blind. “Good afternoon, Rory. Has your father come home?” Leliana says, friendly, but clearly pointed. Rory shoots you a red-cheeked scowl and tosses his plum pit aside, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slinks away.

“What was that about?” You wonder absently.

Leliana, looking very unimpressed, just shakes her head, “He is just being a silly boy, I think. Sometimes I wonder if they are more trouble than they are worth. You will be careful, no?”

“Of what?” Your face flattens, “Of _him_?” As if you’d be scared of a twelve-year-old boy. What you’re fearful of is men-- men with swords and insignias who think they know better than you. But that’s something you’re keeping close to your heart.

Leliana laughs, unwise the thoughts lying in the back of your brain, and amends, “Well, perhaps not him. But the sentiment stands.”

 

 

 

The days get hotter. The marshes begin to smell something awful: like still still water, skunk weed and, well, _shit_.

You read about spirits, mana, and _healing_. You practice on plants, pulling split fibers back together with the force of your will. The books say it will be hard, but it isn’t, not with the whispers pushing through your veins and out your pores in their dizzying rush to help you. The hot sun and the magic swells are nauseating and, somehow, addicting. Like a long nights out on the town, you muse to yourself.

It doesn’t take long for you to run into a wall. Plants are easy, boring even, but… what else is there to practice with? No one’s hurt that you need to help. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the delays-- I got caught up in travel and time commitments! And WORK! Ugh. 
> 
> This chapter is a little strange because I wrote it in fragments over the past month or so, so perhaps I'll rewrite it in a few days. I... Honestly feel like I forgot to add something? Maybe I'll put it in later, or, well, these chapters are pretty chill. Maybe I'll just shove it in the next one? These should be weekly again, but I've been working a lot of overtime, and will continue to for another month so, ehhhhh? Probably??
> 
> Wow, it's like I've forgotten how to write chapter notes. I'm just going to... end this... here... haha.


	10. part one: the wilds - SPARK

The months change, and there is more to learn than just magic.

“Ils mangent…”

“Mangé…”

“Ils ont mangé…?”

“Mm!”

“Ils ont mangé tout votre gâteau?”

Leliana raises a white hand to smother her smile. “Oui, yes, they did, and I was very cross with them!” She can’t quite keep in her laugh before she says, “You are quite the quick study.” You make a face that looks less than trusting. She giggles and covers herself with a quick, “Your accent is good once you find the right words-- just enough to stay sweet.”

“That’s… very kind of you to say.” You say.

“It is not kindness, it is the truth. You already speak two tongues, and now you are learning a third. It is very impressive! I think that the Maker has given you a great gift for languages.”

You don’t think it’s the Maker, unless the Maker takes the form of a thousand voices screaming out from underneath the shadow of your soul. But you can’t tell her that, it sounds absolutely insane.

Although, if anyone would believe it…

 

 

 

 

The sun is hazing over the horizon when you walk back. Everything is golden and warm-- the long grass, the slow water, your bare arms. It would have been idyllic, but for the nagging feeling dragging out your nerves. Something feels wrong, has felt wrong, ever since you walked through the wards. You squint down the distance, and a little past the ruins you think you see a small red dot huddled in the grass. That couldn’t be-- no.

Over the sound of frog songs you hear a painful shriek. You hurtle down the hill, bunches of meadowsweet bouncing up and out of your basket.

It’s worse than you could have imagined. Your fox is stretched on his side, panting pathetically, red blood staining his white breast. You fall to your knees beside him. He’s just inside the edge of Flemeth’s wards, but how did he…? No, it doesn’t matter. Your hand lands uselessly on the back of his neck, sliding up his stiff-ruffed neck to the tips of his velvet ears. On any other day he’d have nipped you for your presumption, but now he only whines, his pink tongue licking down the line of his wound. You’re not even sure what’s wrong with him. To your untrained eye, his chest just looks red and ripped, shredded like an autumn leaf.

If he was a plant you’d just will him back together again. But he’s not a plant, full of fibers and chloroplast, he’s a fox, made out of fox stuff, and you’re not prepared for this, damn it.

Foxes die all the time. It’s a fact of life. But this is your fox, and you’ll do your best.

You find your mana and press it out. At first it’s like pulling teeth; your fox keens as blood bubbles out from his wound and runs like a river to the ground. But when the whispers catch wind of your intentions they punch up and out, slipping your will through your veins like a needle pulls thread. All you can do is let it happen.

_Will within, will throughout, out, out, out, OUT, OUT, OUT._

They’re there, they’re a lot, and they’re too much. The voices start to choke you with their ferocity, threads of will turning to thick tendrils that shoot to the tips of your limbs like lightning strikes. You can’t stop it, but in a crystal clear moment, you realize that if you don’t you’ll lose… something. _Something_ has to be done. You choke and hack, cutting off mana where you can and letting it trickle where you can’t until, finally, you think that you can breathe again.

Your insides feel like they’re on fire, but there’s not enough time to care. Your hand feels heavy when you reach for your fox. His eyes are closed, but you can feel his chest breath in, out, in, out, steady but slow. You’d let out a sigh of relief if you had a bit of breath to spare. And his wound? Your heart starts to stutter again when you run your fingers across the thick mass of tissue spanning his stomach. It’s smooth like vellum, no fur at all, and… _unnatural_.

It’s wrong. You were wrong. You need help, but no one’s home.

 

 

 

 

Flemeth opens the door at dawn. Her eyes take in the barely-there fire, the small fox beside it, and the wet film on your cheeks. She lifts the blanket off of your fox before she says a word, and after that, she doesn’t need to. Of course, that never seems to stop her.

“You read the book.” She says.

“Yes.” You whisper.

“You weren’t trained.” She says.

“No.” You whisper.

“You made a mistake.” She says.

“Yes.” You whisper.

“You’ll never be able to heal,” She says, like this should be news to you. If you were someone else you might have snapped something back, but you’re not, you’re you, and you’re far too sad to even think of anything to say, so you look away, but... “Not as others do. You’d have to be a Sprit Healer, and you’d be hard pressed to find a book on that which isn’t pressed tight to the Chantry’s bosom. ”

“I...” You’re filled with grief, and there’s too much to take in. Spirits. Bosoms. Foxes. “What?”

She snorts, “You didn’t think you were normal, did you?”

 

 

 

 

Flemeth nearly fixes your fox, her glowing white hands passing over his stomach with purpose, but it’s been too long, she says, and her magic is only a temporary patch. “It will live for a few weeks, perhaps a little more than a month, but he will be too weak to survive on its own.” She passes a bony hand over his scar, and then quietly scritches the space between his ears. “A sad fate for one so wild, but they do not live for very long anyhow. You may keep it here until it passes.”

On your failed attempt at healing, Flemeth doesn’t say have much more to say. Yes, you would have to be a Spirit Healer. No, she will not teach it to you. Yes, she has her reasons. No, she does not think you are incapable. You try to run her through the gamut, but you’ve never been any good at it, and besides, there are other things to occupy yourself with.

Your fox wakes up a few hours later by the light of the fire and he doesn’t seem in any hurry to move. The first few days pass in the same manner: he is only interested in sleeping and eating and doesn’t like to be touched, although sometimes you need to put your hands on him for his own sake-- to hand feed him niblets of game with elfroot sandwhiched between, or to stop him from scratching at his mass of scar tissue.

You spend your days as his caretaker, reading books beside him in the late summer sun, watching, waiting, worrying.

 

 

 

 

Morrigan stands statuesque by the fire, her arms crossed and her lips pursed. There is nothing strange about that. What’s strange is that she’s been watching you, for awhile now, with something dangerously close to pity edging into her eyes. There’s not much to see: just you sitting beside a sleeping fox. But her heart isn’t carved out of rock, just ice, and it’s been known to melt from time to time.

“Up, now, beastie.” She yanks on the back of your shirt, startling you into standing, “Get out. I will watch the blasted creature.”

“What? But--”

“Go, shoo!” She actually shoves you towards to door. “You will find him safe and sound upon your return. But for now, go! I am sick of seeing you. Don’t come back until it’s dark.”

What could you possibly say to that?

 

 

 

 

There are so many hours between dawn and dusk, so you spend them in Lothering. It’s a pretty day, perhaps the last of the season, so you sit beside Leliana by the big tree and the stone fence. A few late plums have made their way to the ground, and though they’re too ripe to eat, they send a sweet smell into the air. It’s pleasant, quiet. Leliana seems to see that something’s wrong, but she doesn’t ask, just reminds you that there is nothing to fear here, and then goes on to teach you all the pretty Orlesian words for flowers.

“Will I see you again soon?” She asks when you leave.

“Of course.”

“Perhaps then you can tell me what has made you so sad.”

Your mouth opens, stops, shuts… and smiles. “Maybe.” You tell her, and it’s true, you might. Next time.

 

 

 

There is a templar outside the Chantry gates. You smile shyly at him, and he nods and says with just a hint of judgment, “Maker guide you.”. It’s irritating, but also, you think, mostly well meaning, so you mumble a quick word of thanks and dash away, pattering down the dirt road towards the Imperial Highway.

It’s once you reach the stone ramp, just out of sight of town, that you're reminded that things are never that easy.

You’re shocked straight when something heavy hits your shoulder. A sweet smell escapes into the air, and you’re none too surprised to spy a split plum rolling down the ground-- and worse still, there’s an awful purple stain on your shirt. You whirl around to find Rory’s standing at the bottom of the ramp. He’s probably just popped out from behind the bushes by the wall, and he’s wearing a truly nasty scowl.

“Leave!” He screams, red-faced and fists tight, “And don’t come back. We don’t want your barbar--!”

“-- _I just washed this_!”

For a moment and a half, Rory just gapes. He probably didn’t expect you to say anything back, and if he did, it certainly wasn’t that. But this shirt is ( _was_ ) white cotton! You’d sewed it yourself, and had spent more time that you’d like to admit dedicated to keeping it clean.

And more than that, how dare he! You came here to relax, to take your mind off of… Off of your sick friend! You were almost happy just then, until he worked up the nerve to come and ruin everything. And for what? To make himself feel more important? It isn’t your fault he’s stupid and can’t control himself. The more you think about it, the madder you get.

Rory’s teeth clench, “You are a--!”

“If it’s not an apology, then keep it to yourself.” You snap.

His shoulders square as he steps forward like he’s trying to make himself bigger and scarier through willpower alone, but no matter what he does, or how angry he gets, to you he’s nothing more than a roughed up pre-teen with too much time on his hands. “Do you think this is a joke? I’m going to--”

“You’re going to what?” You taunt. He turns even redder when you start to laugh, “Are you going to throw something else at me? Perhaps an apple this time?”

“I--! Stop interrupting me!”

“No!” You say before you turn on your heel and make to leave.

He runs up the ramp and latches onto your arm, but you just yank it away. He’s like a cat on a tree, though, and won’t let go. His fingers clutch your elbow next, trying to tug you back into his stupid argument and you’re faced with the revelation that, no, you are not above tussling with a half-grown kid, so you do your best to shove him off of you and onto the ground.

There’s the sound of hoofs galloping on stone, and a man’s deep voice cuts through the fray. “ _Hey_!”

Rory drops your arm like it’s a brand.

The horse stops a few feet away from you, it’s feet cantering back and forth before it’s passenger swings to the ground. His hair is white-blonde hair like Rory's, and he looks more than old enough to be his father. There’s a sword at his side, a boiled leather hauberk sitting heavy on his shoulders, and stitched to his chest is a tiny insignia-- a red shield in a yellow sun. A mercenary, you presume.

“What is this?” The man asks, voice low and dangerous. Beside you, Rory’s looking smaller than you’ve ever seen him, his head hung low like a dog. “I said what is this, Rory?”

“It’s none of your business.” Rory mutters, mad as hell, but with a stutter in his speech.

“Have you been harassing girls while I’ve been away? Eh? Is that what’s got you so busy you can’t even finish your chores?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll ask you again. _What is this_?”

Rory huffs out a harsh, angry growl. His head snaps up in an instant and he says, “What does it matter!? She’s only Chasind!”

The silence that follows is one of the most awkward you’ve experienced in this young life.

“Leave.” Says Rory’s father, dangerously calm, but Rory doesn’t move a muscle until he barks out, “ _Now_.”

That's all it takes for Rory to turn on his heel and run away.

The man says nothing for a time, just squeezes his eyes tight and places a fist to his temple. He’s clearly holding something in. Just when you think it’d be better to leave, before you find out if he’s likely to turn that anger on you, he opens his eyes and gazes at you with a level stare.

“I’ll give you a ride to wherever you need to go.” He says simply.

“It’s fine.” You mumble.

“Please.” The word is heavy in his mouth. You don’t think he says it often. “It’s the very least I should do.”

 

 

 

 

You are very lucky that the Chasind don’t do horses, because it could not be any more obvious that you’ve never sat in a saddle before.

Rory’s father is a man of few words. For the first mile of your journey, all you’ve gotten out of him is “Here.”, “Hold onto the pommel.”, and “Relax, you’re doing fine.”. You don’t mind-- it gives you time to think up a plan. If he insists on taking you somewhere that seems safe, like a house or a camp, then you’ll just have him drop you off at the Hawke’s house. Surely they wouldn’t mind?

He’s been quiet for long enough that it spooks you when he finally speaks.

“I’d like to apologize for my son’s behavior.”

You blink, in search of words, but there really aren’t many to find. “It’s alright.” You say lamely.

“No, it’s not. I should have raised him better than that. It’s no real excuse for what was done, but his mother passed three years ago, and I’ve spent more time on the road than with him at home. I don’t know what he did to you, but it should never have happened.” With finality, he adds, “And it never will again. I’ll make sure of it”

“He… Didn’t hurt me.” You find yourself trying to reassure this man, for some reason or another, “He just said some silly things. It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

He snorts, and you think you hear a smirk in his voice when he says, “Suppose you could have. I heard a bit of the shouting while I was on my way. But what’s this?” His hand lifts from the reigns and ghosts over the top of your shoulder, across the ugly purple stain on your beautiful white shirt.

The memory is so ridiculous you can’t help but laugh, “Oh, well, I suppose he did throw a plum at me.”

Rory's father doesn’t find this as funny as you do. He let’s out a sad sigh, before it hitches, caught in shock.

“What is this?” He asks again, his voice low, lower than when he’d been speaking to his son, low enough that it make your heart skip a beat. His fingers wind into the row of necklaces wound around your neck… and he pulls up your beaded cord with the stag head totem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've rewritten this like twice. I'm so sick of it. I wash my hands of this chapter!!!
> 
> Yes, so, a lot of things are happening. Before anyone says anything, I did warn you guys that I liked killing characters! I do not limit myself to homo sapiens. Although, the fox is still alive as of this chapter, but he's all sick and... Aw, I made myself sad... Anyways, I know you're probably thinking, "What's with that cliff hanger, Merthyr?", and to be honest, I don't have a good answer for you. It just... had to end there. Poor Reader is just not having a good time right now.
> 
> Tune in next week to see just how fucked the Reader is!*
> 
> Also, how do you like that mangled Fren... I mean, Orlesian!? Putting my one year of French class to good use, you guys.
> 
> *Next chapter may or may not actually be out next week.


	11. part one: the wilds - BURN

“What is this?” Rory’s father asks, his fingers tangled up in your beads and twine.

Your mouth is full of ash. You tongue burns for something, anything to say-- anything that this man might be willing to swallow as the truth. “...It’s a necklace. My sister gave it to me.”

In a way, you told the truth. Perhaps you shouldn’t have.

Rory’s father pulls the totem closer and it’s cord tightens around your neck like a noose. Now that it’s right before you, scrutinized from every angle, you’re reminded of all the things that make it unlike anything else: it’s redwood face, and the worn down wave in it’s back; the blue and green beads with the tiny pearls strung in between; the soft leather of it’s thong. Still, the anxiety you feel during his slow examination is nothing compared to the moment you hear the hollow in his voice.

“Your sister.”

It isn’t a question, but you need to say _something_. “Yes. My sister.”

“Look at me.”

“Why--” His fingers grasp the point of your chin and tilt it upwards until all you can see is his big blonde beard and the silver sliver of his eyes. You don’t know what he’s looking for. Is there something on your face? Can he tell, somehow, that you’re guilty, that you helped-- that you were there for-- that you killed-- that you-- you--

His hand tightens along the length of your jaw. Slowly, like he can’t quite believe it, he says, “You were there that day.”

That day? What day? And then you remember the only day it could be. Last summer, with the Templars. There’d been a second man with Edric that day, hadn’t there been?

“You’re hurting me.” You whimper. He isn’t, really, but you’d say anything to get those eyes off of you.

His fingers drop your face and his hand alights on the top of your head, almost fatherly. He pulls tight at the reins and the horse whickers as it whirls it’s nose north.

“Why are we turning around?”

“We’re heading back to the village.”

“What? Why? No.” There’s nothing you can do to keep the panic out of your voice, not when it’s taking everything you have to keep the tears from dripping. “It’s getting late. Ser, please?”

“I’ll have a bed made for you tonight. It won’t be long.”

“My family will be worried.”

“Everything will be fine, I swear it.” The hand on your head runs down your hair, soothing you as if you were a filly. “You’ll see them tomorrow.”

“If they think something’s wrong they’ll come for me.”

You didn’t mean it as a threat but it _is_. You’ve said the wrong thing again and the thick band of his arm tightens like a vise around your gut. “Nothing’s wrong. Some folks have questions, and I suspect you may have some answers. If it’s as you say then they’ve nothing to fear.”

His jaw clicks with tension, his voice is hoarse, and he’s nervous. With concrete clarity, you understand what he thinks he knows. What he _does_ know.

A man with blonde hair in boiled leather… He was there. He knows.

_He knows._

“Questions? What for? Please, let me go. You’re scaring me. Please. _Ser_.” You try and winnow your way out of his grip but his hold is like a Chinese trap.

He’s bringing you to the Chantry-- maybe to test you, definitely to question you. That’s what’s happening. They’ll figure out you’re a mage, and you’ll wind up in a tall, tall tower, trapped until the Blight tears everything apart-- no, until everyone goes crazy with demons and blood magic. What was his name? Ulfric? Uldric? You don’t even remember what’s for certain, so how could you possibly figure out how this timeline might end? You could be annulled! That’s assuming they don’t turn you Tranquil first. The very thought is enough to send you into a spiral.

“Calm down!” He says, but you’re doing anything but.

“Let me go!” You shriek, but his arm is like iron. You scream loud, raw, primal; like you’ve never screamed before. Surely, someone should hear you? But no, there’s nothing around, just tall trees, a gurgling stream, and the winding road.

The frazzled ends of your thoughts stick together until they form a single, simple plan. _Run_.

You take the top half of the reins and tug. The horse, already put upon and confused, hops once, twice, and when you yank it’s bit to the side and twist it _rears_. Rory’s father shouts something, a curse maybe, and his grip falters. You try to jump, but he grabs you by the thigh before you can get too far. Acting on instinct, you whip around like a wild thing in the wind and rake across his face with your nails. “Hey! _Hey_ !” The sun’s setting, the horse is bucking, you’re screaming, and the next thing you know you’re _flying_ through the air, up and and up, until your body crashes past a bush and into a tall bed of tinder dry grass.

You wish you could say you hit the ground running, but the smack of it all pulls the breath from your lungs. It takes you a second to roll away and bolt, and a second is all he needs to lunge out of his saddle and grab hold of your arm.

The struggle doesn’t last long. You’re strong and you’re quick, but you’re just a little girl, and him, a man fully grown. There was never a real chance.

_The fade, the fade, open up the fade._

He already thinks you’re a mage, doesn’t he? After all this, what more do you have to lose? You let the fade flood open, white hot and strong, burning your veins like a lava flume, and let it do whatever it must to keep you safe.

After all of that, you have the nerve to be astonished when he catches fire.

 

 

 

You thought Edric was bad, but he hadn’t known what was coming-- he’d died quickly.

Rory’s father burns to death. You don’t think you’ll ever forget the way he screamed.

You’re not sure what’s worse: that it was _you_ that did that to him, or that you didn’t quite understand what you’d done, couldn’t comprehend it until it was too late and he was dead. He went too quick for you to fix it, but it lasted just long enough that-- that--

There was a stream just through the trees. You wonder if it would’ve helped if he knew. You drag his body into it after it’s done.

 

 

 

Morrigan is home. You tell her what happened, exactly what happened, and when your tale is out of tune, she says, “Where? No, don’t tell me. Show me.”

You show her.

At twilight, you arrive at the scene, but the body is long gone. “You’re in luck.” Morrigan says, “This stream flows west of the village. None that could find him would know him. Furthermore, you said he was burned?”

“Yes.” You murmur.

“Enough to matter?”

“There was an insignia on his armour. I burned that, too.”

“Good.” She says it like she means it. “You did well. This should not be traced back to us.”

Maybe you did well, but you don’t feel well. Morrigan catches her lip between her teeth but she doesn’t say anything. When you arrive back at the hut you quickly begin to undress for bed, but stop still when you feel Morrigan’s thin hand on your shoulder. You turn, thinking that there might be more that Morrigan needs to clarify, but all there is to find is her cat eye gaze burning down on you.

“You--” She begins. You wait patiently, but all she says is, “...Goodnight.”

“...Goodnight...”

 

 

 

The stag totem snapped during the struggle. You’d like to get rid of it, but you can’t, so you keep its pieces in your little leather pouch.

The next week is quiet, until the end.

Morrigan is kind. As kind as she can be, you should say. You wonder if she feels guilty about what had occurred. Technically, it might never have happened if she’d kept to herself that morning, but, well... she wasn’t the one who did anything wrong. You keep close to her in the days that follow to let her know, in your own way, that you don’t blame her-- and because you need her, too.

Sometimes you wish someone would just hold you.

Your fox doesn’t let you pet him again until his dying day, and only because he’s too weak to fight it. You’d always tried to keep a respectful distance, but his last hours are filled with so much pain. You hold your fox in your lap as he hacks blood onto your skirt, petting that perfect place in between his ears until his body goes still.

After he’s dead Flemeth sets her mending aside and takes his cooling body from the cradle of your arms. You don’t bother to protest when she walks out the door with him. The guilt sits heavy in your soul as your mind wanders through could-have’s and what-if’s. What if you’d just let him die that day? He’d have found peace long before.

The blood, the burning, the pain. You wonder if Flemeth had really done anyone any favors.

 

 

 

Fall trickles by, one day after the next. There’s so much to do at the end of a year, and you get lost in the monotony of it all. In truth, the busyness is a blessing. You let it carry you.

Winter finds you quiet and drawn. The days are dark and there’s nothing much to do but think, and thinking is a dangerous thing for you these days. Sometimes you'll look into the embers in the hearth, and just for a moment, you'll remember what you did and your whole day becomes heavier to bear. You do what you can to keep it to yourself, but even Morrigan notices that something’s still not quite right. She gives you extra spoonfuls of stew at supper and gets annoyed when you don’t finish it, so you smile, apologize, and do you best to swallow everything down.

You read a lot to fill the time, but you always had. You don’t like learning about magic as much as you used to-- something about it makes your stomach turn, so you finish all the histories and practice your Orlesian instead. None of it will help you get home, but you tell yourself it will probably be more useful in the end.

When you start running out of books to read and things to do, you invent them.

Samik’s grandmother acts like she is doing you a great service when she agrees to teach you spinning and embroidery, but in truth, she isn’t doing you any favors. Wily and opportunistic, she made you agree to teach her how to brew Flemeth’s famous warmth salves in return. She’s lucky you think she’s amusing, and more than that, she’s lucky with how quickly she picks up your recipes-- Flemeth would call her knack canny, you think. Perhaps she's a hedgemage?

It feels like the sun sets just after noon sometimes. You're still stitching little birds onto your shirt cuffs after night falls, squinting in the faint glow of a rushlight. Samik’s grandmother examines your cloth before you leave, and his little kitten sisters wiggle themselves under your arms while you wait for the verdict.

It isn’t good.

“Go boil some water, boy, we’ll be here for awhile.” She grouses as she settles herself into her chair by the fireplace, picking out the threads of your mediocre work with a pucker in her mouth. She looks up at you while she fiddles with it and asks, “Whatever happened to your charm, child?”

One of the little girls starts playing with the necklaces at your breast when you ask, “...Which one?”

“Your hunts charm.” Your blank face says volumes and she can’t help but roll her eyes. “The stag head.”

“Oh... That… It broke. Was it for something?”

“ _For_ something?” She snorts, “You have no idea, do you? If you didn’t know, then why did you wear it? Bah, why do I ask these things? You witches are like carrion. For all I know, it could have come from a grave.”

It did, didn't it?

“Nana.” Samik says by the bright firelight, his voice soft but hard.

“What?”

He levels her with a deep stare, pitch black under the fringe of his dark hair, and after that, nothing more needs to be said.

His grandmother seems startled by that stare, a little thoughtful even, but she shakes him off like so much dust and says as she picks and picks, “Your girl has bigger things to worry about than the sharpness of my tongue, boy.” She gazes into the fire, and the fathomless look in her eyes makes you wonder if Samik is more like his grandmother than you granted, “I’ve heard tales of strange things in the South. Strange things-- things that make my bones burn cold. You’d best be wary, Rhiannon. Now is the time to keep your charms close.”

“I don’t think a hunting charm will do me much good if what you say is true.” Your mind wanders back to the night you’d washed a young templar’s blood off your face. “I don’t think it ever did anyone much good.”

“Aiyah! You speak of things that you don’t understand. A stag does not chase, it flees, and when he must, he fights. That charm was not meant for the hunter-- it is for the hunted.”

Somehow that makes it worse. “It doesn’t work.” You declare.

“It does.”

“It _doesn’t_!”

God, if she was surprised by Samik! Even the boy himself looks a little shocked at your shout. One of the little girl's peers at you with wide, unsure eyes. There's a question in that look, but you don't have an answer, so you pull her close and bury your nose into her baby-curls. His grandmother gives you a long look from beneath her hooded eyes, and you wonder if she understands that you don’t mean to yell. You hope she does. Finally, she says, “You’re here, are you not? You are in good health?”

You nod slowly, cheeks burning.

“Then it works.”

The room descends into a quiet sort of busyness. Water boils. Threads pull. Rain patters.

Samik hands you a wooden cup filled high with hot tea. His sister has fallen asleep on you, and you gently lay her down before you can take it. It smells like licorice. “I can fix it.” He says. “If you have it.”

You almost tell him that you don’t. But you do.

From your flower stitched bag you pull out the broken pieces of your charm. Samik looks at it and nods, wise as a sage, before pulling a jar off from a shelf. Inside is a tacky red ball. A pinch of red, a shallow plate, and a thimble full of hot water is all he needs. With sure fingers and a few dabs of his glue, he melds the stag’s delicate tongs together and lets it set until morning.

When you wake up it’s better than new. It’s obviously been mended, but there’s something about it that finally seems whole.

 

 

 

Weeks go by and the days get longer. Over your morning bowls of porridge, Flemeth says as if she were commenting on something as insignificant as the weather, “There have been sightings of Darkspawn in the south.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, wow.
> 
> This chapter took a lot to write, figuratively and literally. Literally... because it's really long when compared to the other drabble-y bit chapters. Figuratively, because my first draft went into detail on Rory's father's death and it was so bad. I mean, the writing was fine, but it was too much, you know? So you get this instead. Yay?
> 
> Like always, I feel like I'm missing something. I'll probably come back and write a few more clarifying sentences in... but this chapter feels mostly solid. Probably because of this part of the story is almost done and the pieces are all pulling together. I'm excited to move on! Oh, and next chapter? Next chapter you'll meet the Wardens. (;


	12. part one: the wilds - DROWN

Darkspawn. You wonder what they look like, smell like, sound like. You wonder if you’ll-- no,  _when_ you’ll see them.

“Sightings are rare, but they’re hardly unusual.” Morrigan murmurs to you in the night, her voice lofty and careless, but a little  _too_ so. “Anyways, you’ve no need to be fearful. They will soon pass, and our lands are well warded.”

“I see…” You say, and you do. Just a little more than she does.

“Yes, well.” She huffs and shuffles back to her corner of the bed. “It won’t affect us.”

There’s nothing you can say, because it’s everything, and she’s lying. Does she know she’s lying? Or is she just being kind, in the way she knows how?

The nights are still as cold as clouds. You watch Morrigan breathe for a bit, her shoulders rising and falling, before you slip your freezing feet into the halo of her heat, and while she sighs when she feels your icy toes against her calf, she doesn’t tell you to move.

She’s being  _very_ kind. You’re almost impressed.

 

 

 

It’s fine, for a time.

The winter snow overstays it’s welcome, and the spring’s sun is striking and cold. The Chasind folk grow gaunt beneath their shaggy furs, and while you find yourself tightening your belt with the rest of them, it doesn’t strike you as anything dire until people start coughing. It’s obvious in hindsight: you’re weak because you’re hungry, and you’re sick because you’re weak. It’s simple, primal even, and somewhere in the well of your mind you already knew that these things happen.

Except, these things have never happened to  _you_ , and that makes all the difference.

Samik’s father catches it first from the neighbors downstream, then Samik after him, and then his sisters. His grandmother says it isn’t so bad. “Swift.” She says, “And it burns quick.”

It feels bad. Small as they are, the sister’s get the worst of it, and while one stumbles through as fast as the rest, it lingers in the other. Her wet coughs remind you of your fox, and you watch her like you watched him, playing games by her bedside with her brother and singing her songs until she sleeps. His grandmother lets you for a time, but then her chest begins to hollow and hack, and she says there is no choice but to send you away. You’re only young, she says, and it’s best to leave until things are better.

You ask Flemeth if there’s any way you can aid them: a potion recipe, perhaps, or a book of healing. “Nothing… Nothing with magic. I know that-- But there must be other things I could do?”

She looks at you in that way that makes you feel stupid, like you’re missing something, and says, “With the way the world will soon be turning, do you think a little late winter illness is something we have time for? Practice your wards, girl, not your potions.”

Samik’s sister gets better, but the neighbor’s daughter dies, and a week after that you’re forced to admit that Flemeth was right about some things.

 

 

 

You’re perched against the ramshackle ruins on the hill with a book between your knees and a chicken by your side. There’s something strange about the day, a sort of heaviness in the air. When your skin prickles you look up, around and down, down, into the wet plains of the wilds; in a big slough fat with snow melt are a bunch of boats going up the byway like a long string of pearls.

Strange. You’ve never seen anyone in these waters before.

The chicken squawks in surprise when you take to the sky. You follow the boats for a while, diving into a draft upstream. There must be twenty of them, men and women both, though your stomach sinks a little when you see that over half are children. They’re clearly Chasind by their way of dress, with hollow cheeks like the ones you know, but their face paint is unknown to you. Strangers, all of them. But there’s something familiar in their far-off eyes, something that reminds you of your old world, of parceling through old black and white photos in the history books.

 _Shellshocked_. The word comes to you quickly, and you see it spelled before you like a dictionary. They all have that thousand yard stare.

There’s not much to them, just skin on bones, and what little they could pile onto their backs. That, and a big bundle of cloth tied tight to their biggest boat. Food or a tent, you assume, until you see it move and hear it moan. You catch a better glimpse when you fly back to the hut: an ash white boy with black beneath his eyes and spittle on his lips.

The memories of tacky skin and hacking coughs are fresh on your mind. You say to Flemeth, “He was sick, wasn’t he? I hope--”  _I hope they don’t stop here. I hope it doesn’t spread._  It’s a selfish thought and you know it, but you must ask her, “Do you think it’s... contagious?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course it’s contagious, you fool. It’s the Blight.”

 

 

 

The snow finally goes. It should be a relief, but the sea blue skies bring new troubles.

Refugees. They come like the tide, slowly, slowly, until it almost seems like they were always there.

They try and barter in the Chasind village.  _Has anyone any food? Any poultices? Any weapons?_  What little there is to spare is sold off quickly, until the villagers grow wise with the rumors and begin to keep close the things they’ll need to survive. When another chain of boats check in Samik’s grandmother slams herself into the hut in a flurry of coughs and mutters. “Charity runs out in the wake of many mouths.” She grumbles.

Some say little, but others can’t seem to keep it in. Dead-eyed children huddle with you beneath the docks and tell you terrible tales. Father’s dead, mother’s taken, whole communities butchered and burned. It’s all relayed with such clarity, such alarming frankness, that you can’t quite function with it. You need to help, but how?

You have potions, whole shelves of poisons and healing draughts. You bring a clinking, sloshing basket to Samik’s --to sell them, to give them away, you haven’t quite figured it out-- but his mother pushes your basket right back into your arms and solemnly tells you to bring them home.

“You’ll need them.”  

You leave them anyways, and Samik silently smuggles them into the boats that need them.

 

 

 

Morrigan is twining long lines of beads around her staff. They wink at you in the sunshine: agate, serpentstone and obsidian.

“It isn’t a true Blight. Or at least, so says the King of Ferelden--”

“Bah!” Flemeth snorts, “They’d set us all aflame just to hide the smoke. Fools, all of them.”

“ _However_.” Morrigan continues frostily, “They are beginning to amass an army at Ostagar. There’s already something of a camp forming in the ruins.” She pins you with a queenly stare, “I wouldn’t recommend you leave the wards. I imagine they’ll begin to send out scouts.”

“Oh.” You mouth twists thoughtfully, “I haven’t seen any darkspawn yet.”

“You will.” Says Flemeth, “And so will they.”

 

 

 

The refugees flow on and on, until it feels like you’re drowning in them. But then, just like the tides that carried them, they ebb.

It’s strangely alarming, like looking behind you to find your shadow gone. You don’t see their boats floating by your tributaries anymore, so you soar to the river, and when you see that they’re not there either, you head south, towards the Chasind village. But there are no refugees here, nor are there any boats, or sounds, in fact there is… no one here at all.

You walk up the quiet docks and inside one of the gaping doors. There are still things left on the table: a ball of twine, a wooden plate, an unlit candle. A fork is facedown on the floor in the corner, like it was tossed there, and some of the things that were once on shelves are flung all akimbo across the bed. There are all of these things, but the important part, the people that make this hut a home, are gone.

In the distance there's cough.

The tension in your shoulders crack and flood, washing down your back in a waterfall of feathers. You fly out the doors and up the bluff in a flurry of black wings. On top of the hillcrest, spring green with acorn trees,  Samik’s grandmother sits alone. Her skinny frame leans up against a tree trunk, and her milky eyes are gazing over the water and into the setting sun. She doesn’t look away, not even when you’re a girl again.

You drop to your knees on the damp grass beside her and ask, “What’s happened?”

She threads her fingers together and says, casually as you please, “The darkspawn happened.”

“What! Where are--!”

“They’ve all left. You’ve nothing to worry about.”

Who left, where did they leave to? When? Why? There’s so many questions, but if you’ve learned anything over the years, it’s not to ask the stupid ones. You still your heart before opening your mouth and asking, “Then why didn’t you…?”

“I’m sick. And old. What space I might have taken they filled with food.”

“They couldn’t have left you. That… It’s not right. They wouldn’t have.”

“They could and they did.” Her voice isn’t biting, or bitter, or even blank, it’s… solid. She looks at your for the first time, eyes narrow and daring, and says, “I made them.”

“You can’t just-- I mean, you should… you should…” What  _should_ she do? God, what are  _you_ going to do? “...You should come and live with me!”

“With you and your witch of a mother? I wouldn’t step foot in that place, not even if you gave me a gold piece a day.”

“You’re just being stubborn.”

“Ever and always. Here, the boy asked me to give this to you. I told him to keep it, but you know him, he never listens.” She says the last bit with a proud lift to her lips as she pulls something out of the depths of her skirt: a brown pouch, bigger than your fist. Her stare turns to a glare, “If you ever lose it I’ll haunt you.”

You take it and hold it close. “I’d never!”

“Good, now go.” Her eyes flicker back, forth, and farther, sight skittering off like a skipping rock. You try and follow her point of view but nothing’s out there. Still, there’s something floating on the air, muggy and menacing, and it’s setting your hairs on end. Her face focuses. “ _Quickly_.”

“I’ll come back for you.” You assure, setting the pieces in line in your mind. “I’ll get the boat. It shouldn’t be very long… an hour if I use magic…”

“ _No_. Don’t ever come back here. Go.”

For a second you’re stung. But isn’t that such a strange thing to say? You start, because she’s afraid, isn’t she? You never imagined this great beast of a woman could be frightened, but--

That’s when you hear it. Shuffling feet and the strangest sound; something snuffling and wet, like a boar or a druffalo, but deeper, darker. A cry cracks the air and a savage chorus roars in delight, a whole hoard baying like a pack of sick dogs.

“What? Is that--!?”

Darkspawn. But it can’t be. So soon? Right now? What are you going to--!?

Samik’s grandmother sits up in a flash, grasps your shirt with bone-thin fingers and  _shoves_ you. “ _Go_.”

It’s violent, it’s scary, and you’re  _losing_ it. “I can’t just leave you! Why are you--!? We have to--!” Your hand scrambles to find hers, “We have to go!”

“I’ve made my choice, and I’ve made yours. Now go.”

You can’t. She can’t. “I can’t--”

 _Crack_! She slaps you straight across the face and your head goes down with your heart.

“You useless girl.” She whispers, the points of her nails digging into the curve of your chin. “Just do what I ask.”

You’ve never noticed before now, but her eyes are hazel, flecks of green dotting the dark. It suddenly occurs to you don’t know her name.

You do as she asks.

 

 

 

Darkspawn are hideous. Mottled, rotten and wrong. You reel back and watch them crest the hill. A creature with wicked horn rears back his head and roars, strings of spit dribbling from his maws and sending a rancid scent through the air.

Samik’s grandmother is already gone. The setting sun splashes indigo and gold over the water.

 

 

 

There’s no one left to cry on, so you do it alone, where no one can see you.

At home Morrigan watches you so attentively that one would almost think she cared. She makes you take a second bowl of porridge and refuses to leave you be until you finish it.

Flemeth says nothing, but you know she knows.

 

 

 

You never know what month it is… Not that Thedas keeps the same months as Earth; and not that it ever really mattered, because the Chasind never cared. Still, there are tells. The sun's light lengthening, the strawberries on the hills; if you had to guess, you’d say it was June. You used to like June.

This year you’re living amongst darkspawn. No one leaves the hut as themselves, only as beasts or birds, and never for very long.

It’s stifling. It’s awful.  _Everything_ is awful and… and you’ve lost your feeling of safety, and you don’t know how to get it back. You want someone to swoop in and save you, but no one can, no one except for…

You set aside your stitching and sit up.

“I’m going to Ostagar.” You announce.

Morrigan’s lip curls in derision, “Might I ask  _why_ you would do such a thing?”

“I want to see them. The army.”

She rolls her eyes-- she is just like her mother. “Would you really take such a foolish risk just to sate your curiosity?”

Your nose wrinkles, “Haven’t you gone? More than once?”

“Of course. But I am not you.” Something on your face startles a laugh of delight from her throat, “My, my! Have I touched a nerve? I suppose I will be leaving your dinner on the coals tonight.”

 

 

 

The walls of Ostagar are teeming with soldiers.There are more people here than you’ve ever seen in this lifetime: Women, men, humans and elves-- elves! It’s ridiculous, but you’ve never seen elves before. Small, slender, but easily mistaken for a human until you see the slant in their ears and the otherness in their eyes.

None of them see you, of course. You’re a bird, of prey for today, and you’re searching for something.

It isn’t the beginning of the mage's quarters, though that catches your attention for a morbid moment. They’re squirreled away in a corner, unpacking chests and scrolls, and if you couldn’t feel them you might have missed them. There’s templars here, too. Scads of them. You don’t stay long.

There’s a whole field of camps for those who fight, tents flapping and fires smoking, and in the crumbling stones of the ruins is a place set aside for servants and aides. The soldiers are a more raucous bunch. They yell, and curse, and laugh with one another; they take off their shirts so they can bronze in the sun while they sharpen their swords, and they have far more available to drink then you’d have expected in this out of the way place. In the corner of the camp, under an arch that’s stood the test of the time, are a patch of blue dyed tents filled with men in silver armor and blazing griffin insignias.

The Wardens are here. Were you a human, you’d sigh in relief.

You observe them for awhile. One of them pitches a tent. Another naps against an old stone pillar. There’s a mage amongst them, and his magic practice is making the whole camp uncomfortable.

“--no, it’s not.”

“It is! Just look at its beady little eyes. It’s positively  _creepy_.”

You cock your head at the two men speaking below you. Both bright haired, dressed in blue, with shields strapped to their backs. There is something… very familiar about one of their voices. Not the bearded one, but the younger one with ginger blonde hair...?

The younger squints up and says to the older, “Look at it, it’s listening to us.” His commander doesn’t look very convinced.  “Fine. How about… Oh, let’s see… Caw once if you speak common!”

“That wouldn’t mean a damn thing. Crows caw all the time, you daft idiot.”

“Actually, I think it’s a raven… aaaaand you don’t care. Right, right. Well, why not three times then? Can you do that for me, Ser Raven?”

You don’t make a sound.

“...It’s for a good cause?”

The older man shuffles to the ground and pulls out a stained rag and his sword. His friend settles beside him, lounging back and clacking his steel toes together. The bearded one says, “Get off it already. The blasted creature's just looking at your nose. Probably thinks you’re kin, what with that big beak of yours.”

The familiar one lets out a long-suffering sigh. “There's another one to add to the list.  _Duncan_  never made fun of my nose.”

“Not when he could see it.”

“Remind me again, why did he leave you in charge? Because it certainly wasn’t because of your niceness. ”

You’d think a soldier would get a sound thrashing for mouthing off to a commander like that, but the man only laughs. A stranger in a silly hat round the path to their camp. “Suppose it’s the King again.” He sighs before he shoves his sword into the boy’s lap. “Here, you can finish this for me since you’re so bored. I want to see my face in it when I get back.”

“Well, I can't imagine why...”

He thwaps the boy on his head as he walks away to meet the messenger.

After a while Alistair leans his head back on the pillar you're perched on and says, “I’m still on to you.”

You caw three times before taking off. You’ll treasure the look on his face always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters... they're... growing!!!! This baby's like 3000 words. That's a lot for me, guys!! I am a short distance writer! 
> 
> It's taking longer to get to the next part than I expected. If I were an editor I'd slash so much of this but I'm having FUN so SUE ME. However, this chapter had a few wardens, so that's good. Next chapter will have a whole lot of them! I had a lot more fun with writing Alistair than I thought I would. He's actually not my fave (although I do like him) so it surprised me how easy I pumped it out. 
> 
> Also, sorry for the extra heaping of PTSD. We had to close off that chapter of her life, guys. Also, it was going to be so much worse! This is the good ending of the Chasind chapter! Really!! (For those who care, her name was Tasha)
> 
> Also also, I started naming my chapters. If you have better ideas for any of them PLEASE tell me, because honestly I only like half of them. But the index looked so bare without actual chapter names, I had to do something about it...

**Author's Note:**

> Did we need another modern-girl-in-Thedas story? No. Am I going to write one anyways? Ohhhh yes.
> 
> Hahaha. I'm trash. This is trash. But hey, if you like the taste of garbage...? Let me know what you think, and what you'd like to see in the future. I've got a good idea of where this is going, but there's lots of room to grow.


End file.
